


Liegelord

by Elivra



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Letters, M/M, No Smut, Short Chapters, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-27 09:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 20,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elivra/pseuds/Elivra
Summary: "Sir Erwin Smith," says the King, "meet your new liege, Prince Levi."The Usurper has won. In the turbulent mess of a kingdom that is scrabbling to adjust to this new shift in power, two men as different as day and night struggle to reconcile themselves to the strained dynamic of a knight and his liege.Rated for swearing for now, may change ahead. Tags added as story progresses.





	1. A Promotion

It has been the coldest winter in years. But he knows the chill in his bones has nothing to do with the cold air misting his every breath. The stone corridors seem hollow, empty. Several torches are unlit, and in the dark, the wet puddles on the floor seem like mere dampness, until the dim flickers of a random torch illuminate the scarlet spatters on his steel toed boots.

The vast hall he enters has one of its doors hanging by a hinge. He strides in, poised as usual, back straight, chin up, mouth grim. He tries not to remember the grandeur of the room not a week past and fails miserably.

There are people in the hall, but they are just smudges of shadow in the corner of his eye. His gaze is locked onto the lone figure at the end of the room, a man who watches him approach with just as much intensity blaring from his heavily lidded eyes. Around him, he hears the chatter dying down as he gets closer to his destination, his boots clanking louder and louder until they are veritable bangs in the hush of the hall when he places himself in front of the throne.

The man in the throne leers at him, and he is forced onto one knee as though by an invisible hand. “Your Majesty,” he mumbles through his gritted teeth.

“Rise, Sir Knight,” the new King drawls, and he does, heart pounding with anticipation. He does not know yet if he will leave this room tonight in one piece.

“I have heard stories,” the King says, and his diction is far from impressive, “of your great doings. I would have your head, but I have more need of your sword.” So direct, far more so than the old King -the one now dead, rotting in the battlefield. “I have decided to appoint you as the official Guard to my only heir.”

He looks up at that, blinking rapidly -the post is both an honour and an insult. An honour of elevated status to him, a regular Captain in the army, and an insult to the good Dead King, lying unburied in the open field while his prize knight earns gold and status.

“You do realise that refusal is not in your power?” The King asks, unnecessarily, he thinks.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he manages to say.

“Good. Knew you were a smart one.” The King suddenly sets down his goblet with such force that the few whispers that have erupted down the hall are silenced again.

“Leave,” the King growls clearly, and at once there is a stampede of feet rushing to the doors. “And someone fetch me my heir,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

They don't wait long. Even before the last hurried footsteps are out of the door, a set of new ones sound behind him -low, deliberate, confident. He keeps his eyes trained on his bloodied boots as the newcomer moves to stand next to the King, and the three of them wait in silence until the damaged doors groan shut behind the crowd.

“Sir Erwin Smith,” the King rasps in the echoing silence, “meet your new liege, my nephew and only heir, Prince Levi.”

Blue eyes meet cold grey, both startled in equal measures. Seemingly unconcerned about the sudden oppressiveness in the air, the King continues, “Guard him with everything you've got. His life is yours. If he's dead it's because you already are.”

“I don't need a fucking Guard,” the Prince speaks for the first time, belying his age. He is clearly no child. “I can take care of myself.”

“You will do as I say, Nephew.”

“I already do. Having a _nursemaid_  is not-”

“Enough.” The King's voice is as vicious as a blade and the Prince snaps his mouth shut. His uncle turns to him. “Sir Smith?”

Erwin licks his dry lips, heart thrumming with hate and anger and so much despair. He has no choice, he wishes he did, he wishes he was lying on the bloodied battlefield with his comrades, dead and free, rather than standing here, whole and enslaved.

He reads the blood on his boots. “His life is mine, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Leave us."

He bows again, palpably feeling the burn of an intense grey gaze on the back of his neck. “Long live the King,” he says, and backs away. The words are only a little less hollow than his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This idea popped into my mind literally as I woke up from a nap. I thought it would be very interesting to see what would happen if I subverted the prevailing dynamic of Erwin being Levi's liege. Et voilà !
> 
> This is just one of many, many WIPs that I currently have, and unfortunately, I cannot promise quick or regular updates. However, I do definitely have several ideas of how I want this story to go, so gear up for more updates!
> 
> In the meantime, please do let me know what you think of this premise! I haven't really written anything like this before and I would love to know how best to portray this and give you guys what you want. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. An Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, you guys, thanks so much for all the appreciation! I've never gotten as many notes as quickly for a fic I've published before! Thanks so very much!
> 
> This one's quite short, sorry. I can promise that they'll get longer as the story progresses!
> 
> Happy reading!

He heads straight for the Princess’ quarters and waits at the doorway. He has never been inside, and has often wondered what it is like. Now, it appears his curiosity will soon be satisfied… But at such a price.

At least an hour passes by before he hears footsteps. He straightens up and waits, the sounds already familiar to him. He would do well to know them in his sleep.

The Prince pauses infinitesimally when he sees him, then approaches with sullen arrogance. “I was wondering where you had crawled off to,” he says in greeting.

“Your Grace,” he bows his head.

The man grunts, seemingly disappointed by the absence of a returning jibe. He opens the doors and pauses. “You can leave, now.”

“I will stay,” Erwin says simply.

The Prince huffs and walks inside, leaving the doors open behind him. Permission granted.

Erwin steps into the dim chambers, musty from just two days of disuse. The Prince stands in the middle, taking in the silk accoutrements with a frown.

“The old King's heir was a woman,” Erwin supplies in the silence.

“No shit,” the Prince barks, prodding at an embroidered cushion. “I saw her in the battle.”

“She was very brave,” Erwin continues, testing his luck.

“She was very stupid,” the Prince counters, walking into the garderobe to inspect it. “Didn't last very long.”

Erwin’s grip on his helmet tightens. “She fought for her people.”

The Prince returns to the receiving room and glares at him. “Exactly. Stupid of her to fight to the death, when she could have accomplished more alive.”

It is the most the Prince has spoken to him so far, and it shocks Erwin that it was exactly what he himself had been thinking but not voiced, out of a displaced sense of loyalty.

The Prince has already moved on from the discussion. Hands on hips, frown deepening as he looks around again, he says, “You can go now.”

Erwin does not budge. “I'm staying.”

“I'm cleaning this place inside out, and since there is no danger of the curtains coming to life and strangling me, I think I can do without your _protection_.”

Erwin ignores the sneer. “The cleaners may intend to cause you harm.”

“Who said anything about cleaners?” The Prince snaps, and to Erwin's alarm, approaches him swiftly, suddenly standing so close to him he has to fight to stay still. “And what about _your_ intentions, Erwin Smith?”

While the Prince looks nothing like his Uncle, there is no mistaking the steely grey eyes, and that frighteningly sharp gaze. Erwin forces himself to meet it with an even stare of his own. “My duty is to protect the Prince.”

“Your duty yesterday was to murder the Prince.” His voice is soft but the daggers in his eyes are still flashing.

“You were not the Prince yesterday.”

Their stare holds in the ensuing silence, until the Prince snorts. “As simple as that, huh.” It is not a question, and Erwin says nothing.

“Go change into something clean,” the Prince orders, finally stepping away. “I won't have you tracking any more of that filth in here. And then you're in for a treat, Smith.” He crosses his arms, a humourless smirk playing across his thin lips. “Ever seen a Prince wash the windows?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yup, short, like I said, but this is where the story really begins.
> 
> Historical accuracy is something I'm struggling with, and something you probably won't see a lot of (like the title everyone uses for Levi; yes, I know, as royalty, Levi deserves a higher title, but "grace" is something I've always wanted people, aka Erwin, to call him, ok)
> 
> Heh, in my defense, this is a fictional kingdom at fictional times. If something seems too jarring, however, do let me know and I'll try and fix it!
> 
> Please do let me know what you think. This is all very experimental to me and I would love to know how it comes across to you! Thanks for reading!


	3. A Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, but chapter 103 pretty much owns my life rn.
> 
> Thank you for the appreciation guys! They really keep me going :)
> 
> Slightly longer chapter ahead. Happy reading!

Erwin discovers that the Prince is painstakingly thorough when it comes to cleanliness. He personally clears out the former Princess’ rooms, packing clothes and unguents and other fripperies in neat little crates and trunks and sending them off into storage. He lets Erwin help only after being asked a dozen times. Between the two of them, they manage to transform the rooms into neat, bare quarters that finally seem to meet the Prince's approval.

Erwin moves into the rooms adjoining these quarters at the end of the day. The Prince speaks little to him, barely managing a word through his solitary dinner and then ousting him without so much as a good night. Fuming, but exhausted, Erwin makes himself swallow some food for necessity's sake and finally collapses onto his new bed, giving in to dreamless sleep.

When he arrives at the Prince's doors the next morning, he is surprised to find him ready and waiting. Again, with no word of greeting, the Prince brushes past him, pausing in the corridor long enough to throw over his shoulder, “Come.” Erwin follows.

They emerge into the grounds behind the castle where the soldiers are training. The scene is painfully natural, the only difference from before being the colour of the banners flapping in the wind. Erwin is highly aware of the pointed stares directed at them but ignores them. He would be staring too, if a random comrade of his was suddenly shadowing the Usurper's Heir in such a dutiful manner.

The Prince heads straight toward the stack of practice swords and picks one after much deliberation. Then, he turns to Erwin and frowns. “What are you waiting for?”

“Your Grace?”

“My Uncle deems it necessary for me to have a Guard, _Sir_ Smith, and I am forced to agree. _I,_ however, get to decide who it is.”

Erwin stays unmoving, keeping his surprise hidden. “Why didn't you test me yesterday?”

The Prince shrugs. “You were spent from the battle yesterday.” Erwin actually raises his eyebrows at this uncharacteristic gesture, when the Prince adds, “That gave me an unfair advantage over you.”

_Cocky little bastard._

Erwin questions him no further and picks his dulled blade. He doesn't have to look to make sure, but he is certain the stares have increased. The Prince absently twirls his sword as he waits, belying a disturbing ease with its use, but Erwin is undeterred; he knows the blade better than he knows himself, after all.

They face off in an empty corner of the field, grips firm, lips thin, eyes cold. Then, Erwin lifts his sword and the Prince attacks.

Within two seconds Erwin is reeling with shock: the Prince is fast, inhumanly so. His moves are otherworldly, slick, precise, and deadly. Erwin barely manages to anticipate them with an instinct born from years of fighting -but he has never before seen a man fight like the Prince does. The murmurs that had begun when they picked their weapons have now fallen silent; Erwin suspects the onlookers are as stunned as him.

The rumours of the Ackermans’ prowess had existed for years, but no one took them seriously, unimportant as they were in their lives. Now, Erwin can't help but wonder what the King fights like, and feels dread chill him fleetingly. He pushes the thought aside; there are more pressing matters at hand, and he ducks under a swing of the dull blade that could have cracked his collarbone in two. A disgruntled hiss escapes him -the blades may be dull, but they are still dangerous when wielded by the little man.

At length, Erwin starts to notice a pattern to the Prince's moves, hidden in his erratic swipes. He doesn't wait to test his newfound knowledge: his arm is already burning from the exertion. In the next second, Erwin sees his opening and strikes in a backhanded move he has never used before. Nevertheless, the Prince's grip is loosened, and his blade goes flying. Relief thunders through his veins, and he points his sword at the Prince, his triumphant blue gaze locking onto the Prince's determined grey eyes - _too late_. In a split second, the Prince dodges his sword and leaps gracefully forward, and before he knows it, Erwin feels a cold steel edge on his throat -a knife from the Prince's boot.

A hush descends on the field, and Erwin drops his sword with shock. “You fight with honour, Sir Smith,” the Prince says casually, not even out of breath, “and if you continue you to do so, you will be a dead man sooner than later.”

The knife presses deeper into his neck and he feels it break skin. The Prince leans in even closer, and Erwin forgets how to breathe. Steel grey fills his vision, and the Prince murmurs, “You pass the test. My life is yours.” Soundlessly, he whips the knife back into his boot, and strides away, leaving a dumbstruck Erwin in his wake.

_Well, shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sooo, the Ackermans' extraordinary physical prowess is one of my favourite aspects of the SnK universe, and you bet your ass I'm keeping it in my AU.
> 
> Erwin's POV was a calculated decision, still, I'm always struggling to write it because I don't want him OOC and that's a little difficult when his thoughts are obviously more expressive than he actually is. I hope I got it right!
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think. Until the next one!


	4. A Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, there seems to be a plot!
> 
> Slight violence ahead, btw.
> 
> I'm so glad you guys like my story so far. Hope this chapter is up to the mark too! :)
> 
> Happy reading!

Over the next couple of days, Erwin learns that the Prince is a solitary man. He eats alone, unless his presence is required at the King's table. He trains alone, and does not spar with Erwin again, only lets him watch. He reads alone, for hours at a time, and when Erwin sneaks back to read the covers, he finds they are all books about history and war. He speaks about five sentences a day, and Erwin wonders how his voice remains smooth and uncracked from disuse. Most of all, he cleans, with an obsession that is never comical, always surprising, bordering on concerning.

On Erwin's third morning and fourth day as the Prince's Guard, they are summoned to a Council Meeting with the King and his Court of Ministers, the first such meeting since the coup.

Erwin has not interacted with the King in the meantime, and feels familiar dread settling in his bones when he enters the room; something about the thin old man is _off_ , something perhaps in his cold, dead eyes, or in the permanently cocky upturn of his cruel mouth.

“Ahh, Nephew,” the King smirks. “So good of you to join us.” The others who are already present, stand up hastily to bow at the little man. The King catches sight of Erwin and his smile widens. “I see you've brought your dog with you.”

“Yes, thank you for the thoughtful gift,” the Prince says casually and slips into the empty chair directly opposite his uncle. Erwin has no seat waiting for him, and he expects none, so he stands discreetly in the darkness directly behind his liege’s chair.

“Well,” the King barks. “Let's get on with it, then.”

The King, Erwin understands soon enough, has a very deliberate manner of going about things. He seems unconcerned at first, letting the Ministers take the lead as they introduce topic after topic, discuss them with fervour until they come to a decision. He plays with a deadly little knife in the meantime, twirling it carelessly between his fingers or scratching irreverently on the table. When it seems like the Ministers have come to a consensus, he barks a sudden cold order, overriding everything that has been said before, and the others scramble to agree. Erwin sees how the man's eyes glint every time he does this, and clenches his fists discreetly. The man is toying with everyone.

The Prince remains silent through all of this, his eyes flickering between one speaker to the next. More often than not, his gaze is stuck on the knife in his uncle’s hand, his expression grim as though something about the elegantly carved hilt of the blade offends him.

Towards the end of the meeting, the King introduces a subject for the first time. “Now, taxes are all well and good. I'm all for filling up our coffers with as much shiny gold as we can. What surprises me, ladies and gentlemen, is the fact that none of you have bothered to speak of the Southern lords.”

A sudden silence descends upon the room, and Erwin notices the Prince tensing up. The most outspoken Minister pipes up bravely, “T-the Southern lords, Your Majesty?”

“An interesting place, down south,” the King muses, his eyes trained on his knife. “Hot weather, hot food, hot blood. Perfect setting for a revolution in the works, don't you think?”

The silence is more profound than before.

“A revolution, Majesty?”

It happens so quickly all Erwin sees is a flash of metal; the next second, the Minister is gasping and choking in his own blood, an ornate knife hilt buried in his neck.

“If there's anything I hate more than bumbling fools,” the King says over the gurgles of the dying man, still sitting languidly in his gilt chair, “it is liars. Which of the two are you all, I wonder?” His eyes rise from his fingernails to survey everyone else in the room. Erwin feels cold to his very fingertips; he hadn't even seen the man move, let alone fling the knife. The Prince's back is frozen stiff, his marble neck in sharp contrast to the visible trembling in everyone else.

“Well?” The King demands.

The Prince leans forward. “So it is confirmed?” He asks, his quiet voice echoing in the room. The King turns to him almost reluctantly. “It is.”

“What would you have us do?” Erwin suddenly realises the Prince is forcing his uncle's attention upon himself. The look in the King's eyes suggests that he knows exactly what he is doing.

“I was hoping these fine folks here would help me decide just that,” he growls. One of the Ministers, Erwin can't tell which one, whimpers.

“ _You_ should guide us,” the Prince insists. “Tell us what to do, Uncle.”

There is a long moment of anticipation. Then the King lets out a bark of laughter that makes several people flinch. “You see? This is true devotion, indeed. You are a worthy heir, Levi.”

The Prince remains unmoving, and simply waits.

“You have helped me decide. Take as many forces as you need and march south. Teach them a lesson.” The King's voice is dismissive and he stands up abruptly. “That is all.”

Before anyone can even breathe a sigh of relief, the man sweeps away from the room, pointedly ignoring the dead man. It takes a few moments for everyone to rise from their stupor. When they do so, they shuffle out of the room in mortified silence, all but two of them, who approach the still seated Prince.

“Your Grace,” the first woman simply bows her head as a formality. “Your departure must be as swift as possible. The reports from the south are alarming.” She pauses, clearly in the middle of elaborating, when she notices Erwin looming behind the Prince's chair.

The Prince rises, walks over to the dead man, and withdraws the blade soundlessly from his neck. As he wipes the dripping blade on the man's tunic, he says perfunctorily, “Sir Erwin Smith, my personal Guard.”

The woman's eyebrows lift slightly but her eyes remain cold and wary. “Traute Carven. Head of the Kingsguard.”

Erwin bows his head. “My Lady.”

“Call me a lady again, and I will gut you,” she says flatly, and turns to the Prince, who is still cleaning the blade. “When do you want to get to planning?”

The Prince lifts the blade as if to examine it in the light. “Back here, after lunch.”

 _Sir_ Carven nods and steps forward, holding out her hand. The Prince glares at her, but she doesn't budge. Erwin senses a wordless clash of wills as they stare each other down. Then, almost reluctantly, the Prince places the knife in her hand. She pockets it and leaves without another word.

_Curious._

“I hate that bitch,” a voice supplies from behind him and Erwin starts. He's forgotten there was another person in the room. The person strides forward, his -her? -energy in stark contrast to Sir Carven, and outstretches his - _her?_ -hand to Erwin cheerfully.

“Hange Zoë, Commander and Strategist. Pleased to meet you.”

Erwin takes the profferred hand and shakes it, eyebrows raised at the unconventionality.

“I would prefer ‘Lady’, to be honest,” he -she -beams, “but 'they’ when you're talking good things about me.” They wink at him.

Erwin nods, suddenly aware that the Prince is staring at the two of them. Lady Zoë notices, too, and bounds up to him and slaps him on the back playfully, shocking Erwin into silence again.

“Well, well, Levi. It's shitty to have to deal with the likes of her again, but don't worry!” They squeeze his shoulders. “I'll be right by your side.”

“Fuck off,” the Prince tells them and shakes their hand away, but Erwin can tell there is no sting in those words.

“As endearing as ever,” they note, amused. “Well, I'll see you boys soon! 'Ta!”

They stride out the doors with an effervescence that is jarring, considering the dead man slumped on the table. In the next moment, the Prince seems to realise that they are alone in the room and snaps into action.

“Get someone to clean that up,” he growls and leaves, too, leaving Erwin alone with the corpse.

His mind reeling, Erwin proceeds to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sooo, yeah, Kenny the Ripper's still got it. I know he is eventually a sort of sympathetic character in the manga, especially from the way he dies, but guys, guys, he is terrifying. I really want that side of Kenny to be present in this AU.
> 
> I have also always wanted to use Traute Carven in one of my stories. Pitting her against Hange was natural.
> 
> So now the plot progresses! A revolution, already? What will they do??
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think of the story so far. Thanks for reading!


	5. A Suggestion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! Although AO3 does not show my latest update date, which is weird.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks again for the appreciation! It really keeps me going! :)
> 
> Short chapter ahead, but I can promise the next one is longer.
> 
> Happy reading!

Their planning bleeds into the day after the meeting. The Prince is relentless, sleeping only a couple hours in between strategizing and research, eating meals at the Council Table, going into every minute detail, every single number involved in the logistics.

“The important thing is to not seem too aggressive,” Lady Zoë repeats for perhaps the dozenth time. “We cannot go marching south with an army as if made for conquering.”

“For the last time, Hange,” Sir Carven spits, “aggression _is_ what we have on our side. We didn't fucking dance our way to the throne.”

“No, with your two left feet, that would certainly have been an impossibility!”

The Prince, for his part, listens more than anything else, only putting in a question or two to elucidate facts, and shutting down arguments when they get too rowdy or suggestions when they get too absurd.

By dinnertime, they have got no further than they had the previous day, and the Prince dismisses them. They leave slowly, looking as disgruntled as him.

There is silence for several minutes as the Prince pores over a tome on military strategy. Erwin thinks he has forgotten his presence, when the Prince says, “Aren't you going to eat?”

“I'm having something brought for me, too.”

“Tch.” The Prince sniffs, but nods at an empty chair. Erwin sits down silently.

“You don't speak much, do you?”

“Not when it's not my place to do so, Your Grace.”

“Ain't that fucking noble of you,” the Prince mutters, clearly irritated. Erwin has come to observe that the Prince is looser in his words when with someone familiar, like Lady Zoë. He doesn't know what to think when it appears he has been grouped with them.

Another minute of silence passes before the Prince leans back with a sigh. “Well?” He demands. “What do you think?”

Erwin demurs. “It is not my place to-”

“I'm fucking asking you, Smith.” The Prince snaps. “Try and be useful, why don't you.”

“I think they all have merit in their words,” Erwin says cautiously. “Your methods are known to be aggressive, and you would do well to continue to use them.”

“But?” The Prince queries astutely.

“But we _are_ dealing with a revolution. Suppressing it with brute force will only curb popular unrest temporarily. It might even incite greater numbers to try again.”

“In a nutshell, exactly what we have come to understand after a whole fucking day of pointless arguments.” He sighs and flings away his writing quill, massaging his brow. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “I did not sign up for this.”

Erwin’s curiosity is piqued more than ever. What _did_ he sign up for?

“You have any specific ideas?” The Prince asks him at length, his head still in his hand.

Erwin has been waiting for this cue. “I do have a suggestion or two.”

The Prince looks up, his expression hard, his eyes glimmering. “Go on.”

“I would suggest taking more of the cavalry than the infantry. That way, our arrival will be swifter, our troops less aggressive in nature and more… shall we say, impressive in the public eye. There is also the cold weather to consider. Marching men will take longer than mounted riders.”

The Prince grunts, eyeing the map where several miniature figurines depict the standing of their vast army.

Erwin pushes his luck and continues, “I have another suggestion, though you may not like it.”

The Prince simply nods, still looking at the map.

“I think it would be in our best interest to include General Pixis in our plans.”

“Our army has no General,” the Prince says immediately, eyes flashing up to him. “It has a Commander, and a mighty fine one.”

“I don't dispute that,” Erwin says quickly. “But General Pixis _is_ from the south. Trost is his home. He will be able to contribute much to our strategies and the people will be inclined to look upon us favourably if we have a familiar face on our side.”

“Pixis is a prisoner of war,” the Prince says flatly.

“And prisoners have been pardoned before.”

“Not by the Ackermans, they haven't.” A sudden pause. The Prince takes a deep breath. “You understand? It is not the Ackerman way. The King will not allow it.”

“Then the King is foolish. What is the point of having prisoners if you don't use them? Why not just kill them upon capture and save yourself the expense?”

Even as he finishes speaking, Erwin freezes, horrified at how much he let slip. The Prince looks more stunned than he has ever seen him -eyes widened, brows heightened, lips parted slightly.

Then the Prince does something else Erwin has never seen him do before -he laughs. It is soft, somewhere between a chuckle and giggle, and ends quickly. Erwin has a sudden urge to smile wide.

“Looks like he _has_ got balls,” the Prince grins.

Momentarily distracted by the Prince's sudden good humour, Erwin manages to say, “I only spoke the truth.”

The Prince's expression dims. “I know you did.”

“Well then-”

“My uncle will not have it.”

“Convince him.” Erwin leans forward, staring at him as earnestly as he can muster. “I am certain it'll work, Your Grace. Convince him.”

The Prince is looking at him strangely, but whatever he has to say is lost forever when the doors burst open behind him and the advisors begin to file back inside. Erwin stands up immediately and moves to stand back in his place, uncomfortably aware of the Prince's gaze still fixed on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hange Vs. Traute is like my favourite thing ever. I am going to take as many opportunities as I can to illustrate this.
> 
> As always, please do let me know what you think of my writing. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. A Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you labelma for commenting on every chapter I update, I am so happy that you like my story enough to follow its updates! :)
> 
> Longer chapter with multiple scenes coming up!
> 
> Happy reading!

The Prince requests for an audience with the King that very evening, and with a mere glance, makes it clear that he wants Erwin to accompany him. This is Erwin's second meeting with the King in two days, and he can't help but feel that it is two too many.

The King makes time for them just before dinner, which sets Erwin even more on edge, because he knows they'll have to make it quick. The Prince, for his part, seems as unruffled as ever. Erwin marvels his hold over his emotions, his outlook not one of admiration but of mutual respect. After all, he himself is known for his stone-faced demeanour and he is proud of it.

The hall's tables have already been set when the Prince strides into the room, Erwin close behind him. The King is looking closely at a parchment, which he only puts away when they reach his dias.

“Well?”

The Prince wastes no time beating about the bush. “I want Pixis.”

The King doesn't say anything for a moment, and rubs his goatee pensively. “Oh? So it's like that?”

The Prince glares at him. “Yes. I need him.”

“And who told you that?”

“No one-”

“Was it one of those asslicking Ministers, hmm? Was it Hange? Or was it…” The King's steel eyes flicker past his nephew and settle on Erwin looming behind him. “Was it your pet dog?”

“If you hate the sight of him so much then get rid of him.” The Prince snaps irritably. “You're the one that foisted him on me in the first place.”

The King's smirk widens. “So it _was_ him.”

The Prince leans back and stares at him wordlessly for a second too long. The King sighs theatrically. “Still the same gutless rat… You disappoint me, Levi.” The King's gaze sweeps past his nephew and onto Erwin again. “Come forth, Sir Knight. I would speak to the originator of this… idea.”

Erwin takes a step forward but the Prince is faster; he leaps up the dias and slams his hands down hard on his uncle's table. “ _I_ asked for this meeting. If you have anything to say, you say it to _me._ ” The King, however, is still looking at him, and Erwin takes another step forward.

But then the Prince turns around to glare at him and barks, “Stay where you are!” And Erwin freezes, stunned.

The King finally looks at his nephew. “Going against my direct command? Are you resorting to treason now, boy?”

The Prince grabs the front of the King's magnificent tunic. “Listen to me, you old shit,” he spits in his face. “You can play at being King and ruling however much you want. But don't you fucking _dare_ play games with _me._ ”

The silence that follows is so profound that Erwin is certain they can hear his heart thudding. Then, as one, uncle and nephew turn to him, the look in their eyes eerily similar.

Erwin gets the hint. “I'll wait outside,” he manages to murmur through his shock, and shows himself out.

*

* * *

 

The doors of the hall slam open a mere ten minutes later, and the Prince strides out, alone and, to all outward appearances, unhurt.

“Let's go,” he mutters and Erwin falls into step behind him. Neither of them says a word, but Erwin feels a thrill of anticipation run through him when he realises they are heading to the dungeons. At the top of the imposing stairs leading into the ground, however, the Prince stops. “He will have no commanding role whatsoever. He will speak when spoken to, and he will always have someone watching over him.” Erwin simply nods.

“I will do most of the talking now, but if you feel you can contribute, do so.”

Erwin nods again. “Understood.”

They make their way downstairs into the darkness. When they reach the cells, Erwin has to fight his curiosity to look through the slats of each door. He doesn't know yet how many prisoners there are down here. Somehow, he doesn't think there are many.

The Prince halts at an unmarked door, completely indistinguishable from its neighbours. A guard from the end of the corridor hastens to their side and the Prince nods at the door impatiently. “I would speak to him.”

The guard obeys immediately.

The creak of the door when it opens is so loud it echoes back to them multiple times across the cavernous dungeons. The cell is fairly big and damp, though the air has a cold bite to it.

“Well, well,” a weary voice rasps from the darkness. “Someone has finally remembered me.”

The Prince snatches the guard's torch and strides inside, Erwin close behind him. A thin, wrinkled face looms out of the darkness, its frown quickly morphing into a surprised smile.

“Goodness me, I am honoured, indeed! The young Prince himself, and -surely I am dreaming? Surely that is not Erwin Smith!”

Erwin nods uncomfortably. He is used to addressing the man as “General” and the word is on the tip of his tongue. But that would not do, not here, not now.

“Dot Pixis,” the Prince says with all his usual volubility (which is none), “how would you like to be let out of this cell?”

Pixis leans back on the bed he is sitting cross-legged on. “I think it goes without saying that I would very much like to be a free man, Your Grace.”

The Prince notices a little wooden stool nearby and sits on it. “I said nothing of you being _free_.”

There is a pause where Pixis’ gaze flickers at Erwin, who keeps his face deliberately expressionless, and then back at the Prince.

Pixis sighs finally, “There are varying degrees of freedom. I'll take what I can get.”

“Smart man.” The Prince leans forward. “Now, what do you say to snuffing out a revolution?”

“I'd say it's a little too early to be talking of such things,” Pixis says promptly. “Unless -unless…”

The Prince continues to stare at him. Erwin decides this is the moment.

“It's Lobov,” he says, his voice booming in the cell.

Pixis’ gaze shifts to him sharply. “Oh?”

Erwin nods, once. “He's leading them.”

“At Trost, then?”

“Yes.”

There is silence again, as Pixis appears to contemplate this. Then he asks the Prince a question. “What would you have me do?”

“Talk, when asked. To me and to my advisors, no one else.”

“But that can change?” The old man asks shrewdly.

“If the situation calls for it.”

Pixis nods. “I have made my decision. Of course, I have conditions.”

The Prince straightens up. “I don't think you're in a position to bargain, old man.”

“Oh, I think I am,” Pixis says pleasantly. “You have already recruited Erwin because Lobov is involved, but with the situation this bad this soon, you most certainly need me to win this. You _know_ you need me.”

The Prince is silent for a long moment, his back stiff. Erwin feels the mood shift, and he is suddenly certain that the Prince is _angry_.

“Your terms?” He mutters finally.

Pixis raises a finger. “One, that you don't make me kill anyone in cold blood. Ah, I don't mean in a battle,” he adds, when the Prince opens his mouth. “Should it ever come to it, I will fight for you, as best as this old body can fight. But I will only fight as a soldier. You will not make me part of any schemes or assassinations. I will not kill an unarmed citizen, or a child.”

“The last thing I would put in your hand is a blade,” the Prince remarks drily, “so you need not worry yourself over that. Anything else?”

“My only other condition is,” at this, Pixis smirks, “a constant supply of alcohol. Good quality alcohol, mind. Erwin knows what I mean.”

The Prince stares at him. “You're serious.”

“Absolutely, Your Grace.”

The Prince jumps to his feet and paces slowly across the cell, once. Then he comes to stand in front of Pixis, who has been watching him warily all through.

“You will be given whatever alcohol we can lay our hands on, quality be damned. If that is acceptable to you, then we have a deal.”

Pixis doesn't even seem to think twice. He clambers off his measly cot and bows to the Prince. “I accept, Your Grace.”

The Prince nods. “I'll have someone come to relocate you someplace else.” A pause, then the Prince actually smirks. “With a bottle of wine ready and waiting.”

Pixis looks delighted. “You are making an old man a very happy old man, Your Grace.”

With a final nod and grunt, the Prince turns around and walks away abruptly. Erwin manages a nod goodbye, too, and hurries after him.

*

* * *

 

Erwin escorts the Prince to his quarters as usual, but instead of shutting the door on him, the Prince says, “Come inside.”

Feeling strangely trepid, Erwin follows the Prince inside. As usual, he wastes no time in coming to the point. “What is Lobov to you?”

Erwin has been expecting this, ever since Pixis let it slip. “He was my sponsor. I was knighted under his guidance.”

“What else?”

 _Damn_ , the man is perceptive. With some reluctance, Erwin admits, “Due to some unfortunate events, he withdrew his favour from me. He was my detractor on… several occasions.” He pauses, then decides to add frankly, “Right now, I believe he would gladly see me dead.”

“And you didn't think this was something I should be made aware of?” The Prince mutters, toying absently with the rim of an ewer.

“I didn't think it was important enough to merit your attention, Your Grace.”

The Prince whips around and glares at him, his fists clenched tight. Erwin feels his senses quicken, the way they do when he's in danger.

_Tread carefully._

The Prince says quietly, “So you're doing my thinking for me now, is that what you're saying?”

“I never-”

“Just like how you didn't think it _important_ enough for me to know of Pixis being a raging fucking alcoholic? Having an edge over the man I'm threatening into service, now why would _that_ be important, hmm?”

Erwin says nothing.

The Prince steps forward. “You think I don't see you fucking around behind my back, manipulating and lying through your ass to get your way? Do you really think I don't _see_ you?”

Erwin blinks rapidly, and when the pause extends, he says, “I would never-”

The Prince turns away again before Erwin can finish a single sentence, and unfastens his cloak. “The next time I ask you for information, you had better give me all of it. Everything you know. If you know how many times a man shits in the day, I expect to know that too.”

Erwin nods, though the Prince can't see him. “Understood.”

The Prince shrugs off his lined leather jacket, revealing a pristine white shirt that billows across his muscled shoulders, matching the paleness of the back of his neck perfectly. A pretty picture, Erwin can't help but think.

“Good. Now get out.”

Erwin bows to the Prince's stiff back and steps out of the room. When he closes the door softly behind him, he finally lets the smile break on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ahahaha you really didn't think they'd get along so well so quickly did you? There's still a lot coming up ahead, so just buckle yourself up!
> 
> As usual, please let me know what you think. Thanks for reading!


	7. Dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... This is a little different from the chapters so far. Also short, but hopefully not too short!
> 
> Happy reading!

When Erwin opens his eyes, it is oppressively dark. He blinks rapidly, and as if that was all he had to do, light bleeds into his sight, dim and flickering.

He is in a forest. Dark, bare trees surround him, their black trunks all the more stone-like against the thick white snow on the ground. When he looks up, he sees no moon, no stars, not even falling snow.

But he is not alone.

The sounds start abruptly, as if they have always been there, as if his ears have only just awoken to them. The woods around are filled with the sounds of little wings flapping madly, the beat of bone against metal, amplified by the stone trees, resounding in its desperation.

Erwin looks up at the trees again and sees his explanation: the branches are bare of leaves or flower or fruit, but as far as he can see, all the trees around him bear hundreds and hundreds of tarnished little cages, all of them holding in a frantic mass of tiny wings and tinier cheeps.

Only then Erwin realises he is on his knees; he stands up and the frenzy of beating wings turns louder, more anxious. He can no longer distinguish his heartbeat from the steady thrum of feathered bones slapping metal.

And then it happens: a sudden hush, a sudden muting of the hopeless sounds of escape. A low growl echoes around Erwin and it is so quiet Erwin wonders if his heart has stopped beating too.

They emerge from the darkness as if they are made of it, and it looks like the dark is clinging onto them in terrifying wisps and fragments. The bigger of the two wolves steps forward first, his muzzle dripping something thick and dark into the snow, marking it, claiming its brilliance into his own dark turf. His mouth is closed, but there is no mistaking the source of the growl, growing louder by notches as the great wolf's chest comes closer and closer to Erwin.

Then the second wolf steps into the light and Erwin feels his own limbs unfreeze, his heart shocked into a racing beat. The second wolf is smaller, but he is also darker, so dark that there is no gleam of snow on his fur, no edge of his silhouette to tell Erwin where this creature ends and where the darkness begins.

Erwin takes a stumbling step back, and the wolves advance. He takes another step, and the wolves move closer.

The smaller wolf bares his sharp teeth and growls.

It is like glass shattering; all the loud, terrified sounds of the caged birds blasts into being once more above Erwin's head, mingling with the growls and the sudden screams that come from he knows not where, mingling with the drumming of his heart and with the sudden, unmistakable smell of blood-

And Erwin wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you thought this chapter was different, wait till the next one lol.
> 
> Let me know what you think and thanks for reading!


	8. Journey - Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the appreciation guys! I may not have been able to reply to your comments but that does not mean I haven't read and cherished each one of them! Seriously, they really keep me going!
> 
> So, um, remember how I hinted the next chapter would be different? Well, here goes...
> 
> Happy reading!

_Day One_

Dear Father,

Today we set off to Trost. The planning of this expedition has been surprisingly efficient. I have contributed as much as I can, of course, but my duties are restricted to being a servant rather than a Commander, and I have done as much as my duty has dictated.

It is strange, writing to you after all these years. I only wonder why I didn't do this sooner. To explain: I have decided to keep a journal of my travels, mainly so that I never forget what I experience in this journey. I will be crossing the country and setting foot in Trost for the first time in many years. Given the recent changes in our kingdom's governance, I believe it is my duty to record everything I see in the aftermath of one of our quickest and bloodiest battles. I have an idea of what to expect, but I would rather put it down here in detail when I come across it.

As for writing to you; I must admit that it was a sudden idea that I chanced upon. I will be frank enough to admit that I hardly knew where to begin and how to go about recording these experiences. A simple military journal would not do, for my emotional experience of this journey is, in my opinion, as important as the facts. And it is hard to express oneself emotionally at a lifeless sheet of paper, unless in the form of letters. I can think of no one but you to write these things to. I only wish that you were still alive, that I could actually send these letters to someone. But I am not one to waste my time on wishful fantasies, as I'm sure you would approve.

Today also marks the first week since I was employed by the new King. It feels like a strange contradiction whenever I think of it: on one hand, I feel like it was only yesterday I was summoned to the damaged throne room and introduced to the Prince. On the other hand, this week has felt like the longest I have ever before experienced. My life before the Ackermans seems like a distant dream, though I only even heard of them less than two months ago.

The retinue is diverse. There are soldiers from the old regime, there are several newly knighted men and women, and a large section of the force appears to be comprised of mercenaries. While this is not surprising to me (the Ackermans won because of their mercenary army, after all), what really seems novel to me is the manner in which they treat the Prince. It is one of deference and absolute obedience, and coming from a group of soldiers who are strangers to one another and to discipline in general, I cannot help but be impressed by this behaviour. One wonders what it took to elucidate this amount of loyalty from a band of people who work for money more than anything else.

Our journey is to take ten long days; as you are aware, in fine weather, we should have taken barely a week. Most of our forces are mounted, we only have a few marching squires and the requisite wagon drivers for transporting weapons and supplies. Our tactic is simple -ostensibly, we are heading south to meet with the southern Lord, in order to better establish the new governance. I doubt this fools anyone, though, rumours of rebellion have reached even the common folk in the capital and there is no mistaking the retinue armed to the teeth that the Prince is taking with him.

I only hope that everything goes according to plan and that there is not too much bloodshed from all of this. I would hate to see Trost become a violent place once more.

I will have more to write about, I expect, in my next letter. Until then,

Your devoted son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *hides face in hands* Was the shift too bad? Sorry guys, the thing is, I have a fairly good idea of how I want the plot to go, I just don't have the details mapped out.
> 
> Which means, like I have mentioned before, lots and lots of experimentation.
> 
> I always enjoy fics in the style of letters -they can be incredibly intimate and yet leave a lot to your imagination. I have written fics like this before and have thoroughly enjoyed it.
> 
> But it's been a while since I've written letter fics, and of course, this story itself is all kinds of new for me...
> 
> So, yes, I will keep repeating this: please, PLEASE let me know what you think! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	9. Journey - Day Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay you guys!! Work has been hectic lately and I'm taking turns writing all my WIPs so yeah... It's. Intense right now.
> 
> A little short again, sorry
> 
> Happy reading!

_ Day Two _

Dear Father,

We have reached Ehrmich. It is as I expected. The streets are filthy, most houses are shuttered or damaged and at least half its population seems to have turned into beggars. It is terribly sad, and though I hate to admit it, terribly scary. The desperation in these people's eyes is something to be wary of.

Our retinue headed straight for the keep, where we were welcomed by the newly appointed mayor, a thin, harsh old man called Skeevers. To his credit, he was frank in his admission that he had not much to offer in the way of luxury, that he could give us a roof over our heads and food for our bellies, but that the beds would not be soft nor the food warm.

The Prince insisted on taking a turn about town, and to let our horses rest, we walked. We didn't go far on account of the short days this time of the year, but in my opinion it was far enough. It is appalling, Father. Most of the employment seemed to be in the way of rebuilding the once-quaint town, but the efforts were clearly lax. Who could blame them, when the pay is undoubtedly paltry and the weather so harsh?

I was also concerned about unpleasantness in our little sojourn, but I needn't have bothered. This close to Mitras, the people had seen the Ackerman army fight first hand and fear still seems to hold them in its thrall. Still, the side-eyed glances sent at the Prince have made me anxious. I suspect I will only breathe easy when we have left this town.

As warned, our meal consisted of bread and some watery soup, whose only noteworthy aspect was that it was hot. We have now retreated to the accommodation presented to the Prince, the former chambers of the Lady of the keep. Lady Zoë and Pixis are to sleep in the same room in order to help accommodate all of our forces in the small keep. The Prince is writing something in a small book of his own, Lady Zoë and Pixis are playing some sort of game on a board drawn on the stone floor, with pebbles as pawns. It looks interesting, I will ask them about it some time.

Did you ever visit Ehrmich, father? There are so many things I wish I had asked you. If you did, I have no doubt you would be saddened indeed. I have only visited this town in times of plenty, in summer months, where its importance as a vineyard town was obvious. At this point, I don't see how, but eventually, I hope Ehrmich is returned to its former beauty. It would be such a waste if it were not.

We are to leave before dawn tomorrow so I must go now. The Prince is making Lady Zoë and Pixis wrap up their game and is threatening to throw the torch out altogether. His dynamic with the Commander is something special indeed, but I will elaborate next time. There will be no more towns or cities after this, so you can expect my next few letters to be more informative in this regard.

As always, your dutiful son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's not making sense yet is it? Why the letters? Where's the plot? I know, I'm asking myself that too.
> 
> Jk all will be explained eventually, never fear. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	10. Journey - Day Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh apologies for the delay!! I got distracted a lot. Literally, one of my tangential one-shots is actually called Distractions, lol.
> 
> Anyhow, here's letter three! Happy reading!

_ Day Three _

Dear Father,

We have just set up camp. Our progress is steady and quite efficient, but we hope to move faster in the latter half of our journey, when the horses can depend on better weather and flatter country. For now, we have travelled so far that Ehrmich’s extensive vineyards are but a distant haze at the horizon. The country here is craggy and so we have camped in tiered levels, often pitching tents under suitable outcroppings of rock.

Of course, the royal tent is on the highest level and the view is quite astounding. We are not very high up, but high enough to be able to see past the rocks that still lie in our way, all the way up to disturbingly flat grasslands. Right in the middle of nowhere like this, it is easy to forget the strife in the kingdom right now. However, it takes but one glance back at camp for it all to come rushing back -the Ackerman banners are everywhere.

.

It has now been several hours since I first began this letter. I was interrupted by Lady Zoë - Hange, as they keep insisting I must call them. I think I can say safely that I have never met anyone quite like them. They have a highly scientific and enquiring mind, a thoroughly rare trait in a former mercenary soldier. 'Former’ since Hange cannot be considered a mercenary any longer, being the Commander of the kingdom's army. This decision meets my ready approval -they are as strong and skilled as they are cunning. You would have enjoyed talking to them, I am certain.

This evening they insisted on sparring with me, in order to “learn my moves”. They said they had watched me fight the Prince and wanted to be able to move like I did. To be honest, it took every ounce of my skill and effort on that day, since the Prince’s moves are frighteningly fast, and deadly, to boot. Remember those tales about the Ackermans you used to tell me, Father? It appears they were not far off from the truth. I vividly remember the King fighting in that final battle, I remember how many able soldiers he practically ploughed through. It is a formidable bloodline indeed.

Either way, Hange insisted, and I complied. We only stopped when it got dark, when Hange laughingly suggested that they did not want to leave me at a disadvantage. As you can imagine, this has only piqued my curiosity. As a mercenary, they obviously have knowledge of unconventional forms of fighting. And you were in my life long enough to teach me that all knowledge is useful, be it conservative or original. I will try to learn from them next time. I would be a laughable knight indeed if my Liege is better at protecting himself than I him.

He is currently speaking to Pixis, in the middle of their frequent, quiet conversations. I will not pen down the few discussions that I have been privy to, as a precautionary measure. I may wax eloquent about the past and the present condition of our kingdom with some confidence, but I would be a fool indeed to write our plans and strategies for the near future in such a careless manner. Perhaps, as matters unfold, I will write of them to you. Until then, you must bear the suspense.

I am struck again by how ridiculously easy it is to write to you, as if you were still living, breathing and whole, back in our little house, as if you would read these words and smile in that fond way of yours. I find that I do miss you terribly, more so than I let myself see. But it is a comfort, and though every word I write is edged with the pain of your loss, it is still - I have no other word for it - calming. I feel like I have come to much better terms with your death now, and this is only my third letter.

Forgive me, I find myself strangely emotional tonight -perhaps because of Hange's incessant questions that included you earlier today. They seemed inordinately interested when I told them about you, but that may have been a trick to distract me. I am proud to say it didn't particularly work. I could hardly help being alert and at my best when my Liege was watching, after all.

I have been rambling for quite a while now, so I will end here. Until tomorrow,

Your loving son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ahem. I love Hange and yeah so does my Erwin. Deal with it.
> 
> The eruriness is *really* subtle but there, you guys, I swear it's there!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	11. Journey - Day Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh lord, I am so terribly sorry for updating late. I've just had such a whirlwind of a week I don't even know where it went Is2g.
> 
> Well, here it is: the next letter. Happy reading!

_ Day Four _

Dear Father,

We are in the grasslands now. Everyone is on edge, including me, and I'm not sure I can say why. Perhaps it is the vastness, or perhaps the plain flatness of the grass. It is everywhere, seemingly unbroken, though we came upon several 'clearings’ every now and then. Our camp is also spread out amongst these patches of grassless land and perhaps that is why we feel so off-kelter.

It is not very easy to pinpoint our current location on a map, and yet I am very acutely aware that not a day's ride northwest is where I was fighting in the midst of battle a little more than a week ago. Perhaps everyone else is aware of that too; I have seen the Prince glance in that direction several times since we stopped for the night. He remains as inscrutable as ever, but I find myself learning more about the man in every minute I spend with him.

He is perhaps the cleanest man in the entire kingdom, and he works hard to stay that way. We do not expect to find any significant water bodies for at least two more days, and we have not been able to wash ourselves since Ehrmich. I have not known him for long, but I am certain this fact contributes highly to his sullen mood.

Not that he is never sullen, according to Hange. I am yet uncertain as to how long they have actually known each other, but their friendship seems to go back years. Hange keeps throwing out telling statements quite casually -that the Prince had been the best swordsman in their army for almost a decade, that he has a fascination for tisanes and teas, that no one has ever heard him laugh. The Prince more often than not shuts her down immediately with a barbed quip that never offends them, only makes them laugh harder.

Seeing their easy, if unlikely, friendship, I find myself missing Mike -he had been a steadfast part of my life for years. Another person I wish you'd known, Father, for you left far too soon. Mike has been a pillar of support, a constant friend, and I can only admit now that I miss him quite terribly. We were knighted together, rode out to battle together, and we hoped to make it back together. But the recent war has taken so much from so many of us. I would grieve more openly, but it feels selfish, somehow, to let myself wallow when I have emerged relatively unscathed from it. Am I wrong, Father?

I must go now, Hange is finally done organising with their assistant. I hardly know what is being organised and why, and I have a feeling I will not understand it even if it were explained to me. As I mentioned in my previous letter, I have asked and they have agreed to train me in their mercenary style of fighting. I find that I am looking forward to it, bruises and all.

And if anything, it will keep me from thinking too much about the nervous mood everyone seems to be in.

Until tomorrow,

Your diligent son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Erumike bromance is one of my fave things in SnK. In hindsight, I wish I had given myself a chance to depict that in this story, but I've got the plot set in my mind now. :/
> 
> I already have the next couple chapters ready and waiting, something I like to do everytime I update, just in case I want to go back and change something in the chapter I'm actually publishing. Basically, the wait for the next one won't be as long, I promise!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	12. Journey - Day Five

Father,

Something has happened. I will write you tomorrow.

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked the chapter!  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Jk, I've uploaded the next letter too. :D


	13. Journey - Day Six

Dear Father,

I apologize for my abruptness yesterday. I see from the letter before that that I mentioned a certain nervousness in the air that seemed to have affected everyone. Well, I don't know yet what it was that affected us so, but I know now that it was a dangerous feeling altogether.

Last evening we approached the edge of the grasslands, where we made camp in this flat sort of no man's land between the brush and the forests that awaited us. Everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when we stopped. Our pace has been quick, our rest fleeting. I can only blame the heightened tension for what happened next.

The tents had just been put up when we heard a shout from under the shadows of the foremost line of trees. The Prince was on his feet quicker than I, and we were both at the scene of the commotion more or less together.

I was horrified to find Pixis kneeling on the ground, a sword point an inch from his throat. I recognised the aggressor as one of the Ackerman’s foremost knights, Sir Sannes. He seemed unresponsive to any of his comrades’ shouts, focused instead on Pixis’ face. As for Pixis himself, he appeared to be as calm as ever.

Sir Sannes only reacted when the Prince barked out a command, at which point, he exclaimed, “He was trying to escape!”

Pixis, of course, denied this. He insisted that he didn't realise that he was unaccompanied, and he didn't realise where he was headed because he was, in his words, “not exactly sober”.

The tension was palpable. Sir Sannes would not stand down at first, declaring his loyalty to the King and vehement that the scum intended to make mischief. I am paraphrasing, Father, for most of the soldiers speak coarsely, and Sir Sannes’ words were no exception.

Pixis only said in response that he “no longer served King Uri”.

And that was that. The Prince commanded Sir Sannes stand down, and he deemed Pixis be in chains for a night, with no more alcohol for two more days. I don't know which of the two men seemed more frustrated at the end of it all.

And so here we are today, surrounded by the rolling hills that spread all the way to Trost. The tension seems to have dissipated, for the most part, although Pixis sober is not a very enjoyable companion.

I sparred again with Hange today. They say I have improved and I am glad. Tomorrow, we shall touch upon the first village since we set out from Ehrmich, and I can say quite frankly that I am looking forward to it. Present company is rather too nervous for my taste.

As always,

Your loyal son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go! Yup, I'm adding more characters as we progress with the story. Needless to say, you'll be seeing a lot of familiar characters in the future.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think of the story. Thanks for reading!


	14. Journey - Day Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So terribly sorry for the late update! My best friend just got married and I've been out of town and out of time for more than a week now.
> 
> I'm back, though, with TWO new letters, my way of apologising, lol.
> 
> Happy reading!

Dear Father,

Can you believe we have a new quest thrust upon us, even as we march to possible war in the South? I can hardly believe it, no more than I can believe in the Prince's magnanimosity.

We reached the little village of Ragako, picturesque in warmer months, perhaps, but cold and dreary at this time. The villagers had not expected us and were stunned when they saw the number of men, led by the Crown Prince, no less. The Prince insisted that we would set up camp outside the village by ourselves, and would require nothing from them, save for an opportunity to clean ourselves in the lake beyond the village.

No one could deny the Prince anything, of course, and they agreed. I believe I almost saw the man smile when we were freshly washed, despite the cold. He is the most bizarre man I have met yet.

The villagers did approach us, eventually, as the sun set beyond the hilltops. They seemed hesitant at first, but the story came out in its entirety in due course: a group of dangerous bandits work on the road that leads past the village to Trost, their main thoroughfare to the outside world. And so here I am, hurrying through this letter before I am summoned for our night raid on the bandits. The Prince himself is leading us, but Hange is staying back to watch over Pixis (who is still a sober grump) and the rest of the men. I suspect I will have some interesting news in my next letter.

Until then,

Your very busy son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lol, Erwin being surprised by Levi is still my favourite in *any* universe, be it canon or otherwise. Next letter should be up, too so go ahead and keep reading!


	15. Journey - Day Eight

Dear Father,

Our raid went splendidly. We rounded up the whole gang, the ringleader was executed in short order by the Prince himself, and we are taking the rest with us in chains to deposit in the dungeons of Trost Manor.

We stayed in Ragako longer than we intended this morning, and so the sun was high in the sky when we finally drew apart from the grateful villagers. Hange says the delay was worth it, for the morale of the soldiers if nothing else, as we have been riding from dawn to dusk all these days. I have to say I agree completely.

The Prince seemed to agree as well. I have finally had the privilege of fighting  with him rather than against him and the experience was completely worthwhile. The man must have the eyes of a cat, to move with such confidence in the dark. I admit I followed him for the most part, even when we began our attack on the brigands. I remembered that Hange had once mentioned that the Prince was their best soldier for well over a decade and I can see why. I am going to practise again with Hange after I finish writing to you, just so that I can fight with more confidence by his side the next time.

I see I have not dwelled on Ragako itself in my last letter: forgive me, I was carried away by the quest at hand. I managed to have a conversation or two with the villagers, and it appears, for the most part, that Ragako is unchanged by the war. I was completely unprepared for this opinion, since the final, most bloody battle we had was only two days’ hard riding from the village. They said that their village was not particularly involved in political matters, that as long as taxes were not too heavy, and that they were left to lead their lives in peace, they were not really concerned with the change in rule.

It is the first time I have encountered such an opinion and it has left me feeling rather lost. I have written time and time again of the war, of the changes, of the losses incurred. I began writing these letters to better understand the state of the kingdom I currently serve. And yet, and yet. Life has gone on more or less as usual in Ragako. Even the bandits have been plaguing them for years, so the Ackerman army has actually been a harbinger of good for these villagers. I have so far considered this war a grim event in our history, and now, I am forced to rethink my ideas on the matter. I would like to be as open-minded as you always told me to be, but I will not lie -it is quite difficult to change a set view of seeing things. Well, I'll get there in due time, I am never averse to adding to my knowledge of this world, whether or not it agrees with my preset ideologies.

Hange has concluded her meeting with the Prince and awaits me, so I must end now.

Until tomorrow,

Your confused son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Get your head out of your ass, Erwin, you don't know what it means to question your beliefs until you've read Isayama's plot twists, amirite?
> 
> "Still with the letters!" You might groan, but guys, trust me, I have a plan. -ish. And a plot.
> 
> ...ish.
> 
> Anywho, as always, please let me know what you think of the story so far! What's working for you and what isn't? Tell me everything!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. Journey - Day Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, so sorry guys, I really hate updating late but writing anything has been a bit difficult lately.
> 
> To make up for the delay, I will, yet again, upload *two* new chapters! Yaye!
> 
> Thanks for the appreciation, I love and treasure every single kudo/comment. :)
> 
> Happy reading!

Dear Father,

Something rather bizarre has just happened. The Prince confronted me about these letters. We had yet to sit down for dinner, and the Prince summoned me into his tent, and asked me, in his usual direct manner, who the hell I am writing to so diligently.

If I had any doubts that my past was looked into before my current advancement into the Prince's close circle, those doubts have been laid to rest now. He was perfectly aware that I have no family, no mentor, no sweetheart nor wife, no bastard child. When I explained, he seemed -well there is really no other word for it -amused. He said writing letters to the dead was one of the stupidest things he had ever heard, and I, of course, did not try to challenge him. My only concern was that he would ask to read these letters: not that I have betrayed him in any way, but I hardly portray him in the best light. Perhaps I should go back and add some flowery lines of praise for him, in case he ever has the inclination to peruse these 'amusing’ letters.

I am jesting, of course. The Prince appeared to treat this as a joke and I will not try to change his opinion. As harmless as these letters are, they are still an outpouring of my most personal emotions. I feel decidedly uncomfortable at the thought of someone else reading them.

We have encamped in the thickets of trees that are spread amongst these hills. The slopes are not too harsh for the horses; in any case, the weather is milder and there are more watering holes and grassy patches for their pleasure. Consequently, our breaks are longer but our horses much faster.

The fair weather and the positive break at Ragako has definitely added to our spirits and yet, Trost looms in the horizons of our minds. We have but a day before it looms physically on the horizon right in front of our eyes. Weapons are being sharpened with much gusto, fireside discussions are burning with so much energy the fires may as well use them for fuel. Hange barely scrapped with me for twenty minutes today before stopping and insisting that I get a good night's sleep, that I will need to be at my most alert tomorrow. There is no arguing with them, so I agreed, and here I am, writing to you.

I wonder what you would say, Father, if you knew all that passed between me and Lord Lobov. I would tell you the whole story, but it is not something I would trust ink and paper with, where any wandering eye can catch a glimpse of it. Perhaps, if we meet again on the other side of the heavy veil that so cruelly keeps us apart at the moment, perhaps then, I will tell you.

For now, all I can say is that I really hope I get to kill him before he gets to kill me.

Until tomorrow,

Your anxious son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Lol@ Erwin trying to be poetic about the "horizons of their minds", like calm down there a little, Shakespeare.
> 
> Next one should be up!


	17. Journey - Day Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, not only because of my writing problems, but also because of Erwin's state of mind.

Dear Father,

I can see Trost Manor and its familiar ramparts on the horizon right in front of me. It has been years since I returned home, and it looks singularly unchanged in the gathering dark. The lights of the town begin to twinkle down at me as they always have. The breeze is slightly humid, and I can almost smell the perfume of spices in it. It was quite a shock for me when I realised earlier today that I have indeed missed home. And yet I feel strange calling it that -Trost has not been my home for many, many years.

We have encamped just beyond a low hill that blocks our view of the town, and consequently, their view of us. We are to break camp hours before sunup tomorrow. The Prince and Hange have timed it perfectly; by the time the sun rises in its full splendour, Trost will see us right at its gates. That is not to say some keen-eyed scout at the gates will not have seen us coming. As Hange says, it is best to keep the element of surprise on our side for as long as possible.

For now, I sit nestled in the trees on the crest of the hill, watching the lights appear in the city as the sun sets to my left. I am simultaneously looking forward to and dreading tomorrow. Simply going back to Trost is daunting enough for me, and going back to fight, to suppress a revolt, makes me more apprehensive than I am comfortable being. We have our plan of action, of course, but we expect many more complications when we arrive. When all this is over, Father, I hope to be alive and well enough to write of it to you. I yearn for the moment when I see you again, but I think we both agree it is not time for that moment just yet.

Until then, I pray to you to watch over your poor, floundering son.

I must away, they will miss me if I stay here too long.

As always, your loving son,

Erwin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Poor lil nervous Erwin. He has such a fatalistic mindset doesn't he. :(
> 
> As always, please throw your opinions at me! Thanks for reading!


	18. Dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So terribly sorry for the delay, guys! I hit a bit of a slump in my writing and I hated it. But well, looks like I'm getting back on track now. Chapters will probably be updated a bit slowly now, but I really hope to keep it as frequent as possible.
> 
> Throwback to chapter 7!
> 
> Happy reading!

When Erwin opens his eyes, it is dark again. He is well acquainted with the forest scene by now, and yet.

And yet.

And yet the hush terrifies him, the scratching, chirping frenzy shocks him when it bursts into existence above his head. The snow is blinding white, the trees are chillingly dark.

Once more he finds himself on his knees; once more he stands up. This dream is painfully familiar to him, he has relived these moments almost every night since he first saw them, and yet.

And yet.

His footsteps are always shaky across the snow as he stumbles backwards. The wolves’ growls are exactly the same, the frenzied birds above his head stuck in the same wordless terror. And yet, fear strikes his heart, deadens his limbs, chills his blood.

_ Wake up _ , he tells himself.  _ You must wake now. _

The smaller wolf approaches, steps past the larger one.

_ This is it. This is when you wake. _

But he is still in the woods. The wolf is getting closer, its growl turning louder. He nearly falls, but he rights himself in time. The wolf is closer still.

_ Wake up, goddammit! Wake up, you fool! _

He idly pinches his arm but feels nothing. The birds are their loudest yet, but even they cannot drown the wolves’ growls, the drumbeat of his own heart.

_ Wake, Erwin! _

_ ERWIN! _

The sound of his name is like a lightning strike. Pain lances across Erwin's back and shoulders, radiating rapidly across every inch of his body. He drops to his knees with a scream, and the sound of his own voice is strange to him.

He can almost  _ feel _ the wolf standing before him now, but the pain is too much, the pain is everything, he is trembling, clawing at the cold wet snow, screaming for the pain to stop.

Something dark begins to mar the snow before his eyes, something viscous dripping down his neck and shoulders in steady, murky drops. Still shaking, still screaming, Erwin reaches back and gropes at his shoulder blades until he finds the wound.

When he brings up his hand to look at it, still shaking, still screaming, he is holding a clipped, bloodied feather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Short chapter, I know, sorry. I can guarantee that the next few chapters are slightly longer! 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think of the update! Thanks for reading!


	19. The Eve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaye, new chapter! Thanks for the kudos and the comments, guys! It really makes my day, I kid you not. <3
> 
> Slightly longer chapter ahead. Happy reading!

Erwin does not sleep after that. The nightmare is something he had forced himself to accept, recurring as it is, and this new development in the dream has shaken him to the core. He washes his hands until the skin begins to wrinkle, and, giving up on getting rest of any sort, packs up his sleeping furs. Leaving them at one of the supply wagons, he makes his way back to the centre of camp, where the dying embers of their sole fire remains.

He hears quite a few whispers as he trudges past -clearly, not many of their entourage is going to sleep tonight. When he reaches the small fire pit, he finds the Prince already awake, sitting cross legged in front of the coals and sharpening his hunting knife.

“Couldn't sleep, Your Grace?” He murmurs, sitting across from him.

“No,” the Prince says shortly.

“I don't think the soldiers are sleeping much, either,” Erwin continues, rubbing his palms in front of the embers.

“Can't blame them,” the Prince shrugs.

“No, I suppose not,” Erwin accepts. “Tomorrow is an important day, after all.” He casts about for something else to say, craving conversation after that horrendous dream.

“You're chatty tonight,” the Prince remarks astutely, bringing his blade up and running a thumb along its edge, testing it.

Erwin manages to hide his surprise. “I… I apologise if I am intruding-”

“Didn’t say you were.”

Erwin gives him a tentative smile. “Ah. Well, I suppose it's just nerves.”

“Are you telling me the great Erwin Smith is  _ scared _ ?” The Prince's face is as deadpan as usual, but his eyes are twinkling in the meagre starlight.

“The great Erwin Smith is  _ nervous _ ,” he corrects him, smile widening. “I'm sure you understand why.”

The Prince snorts and puts away his blade in a quick motion. “Why don't you write one of your sappy letters? Always seems to calm you down.”

Erwin blinks at his perceptiveness. “I already finished today's letter.”

“And it's too late now because it's already on its way to  _ Papa _ ,” the Prince sneers.

“I don't call him that,” Erwin says.

“My mistake. I haven't actually read them.”

“No.” Erwin pauses, feeling strangely frustrated.

The Prince's steel eyes are still focused on him. He huddles closer to the coals and mutters, “I don't have any platitudes to give you. If you want to be told 'everything will be alright’ or some shit like that, ask someone else.”

“I am perfectly aware that everything will  _ not _ be alright,” Erwin says darkly, mirroring the Prince's position and hunching his shoulders. “It is a foolish thing to hope for.”

The Prince looks away. “Of course,” he says softly. “I forgot who I was talking to.”

Erwin can hold back his curiosity no longer. “What do you mean? Your Grace?” He adds belatedly.

The Prince looks at him again. “Why do you think my uncle chose you, Smith?”

Erwin hesitates, he has asked himself this question so many times it seems jarring coming out of the Prince's mouth. When it looks like he is expected to respond, he says, “I suppose - I am good at what I do.” He hesitates again. “But. I am not the only one. There are other knights more experienced than me. There are others from the Ackerman army, more trusted to you than me, a complete stranger.” He sighs, and admits, “I don't know why, Your Grace.”

The Prince nods once, sharply. “Do you know what he told me when I asked him?” The question this time is clearly rhetorical, and the Prince smirks. “He said you never participated in a single tourney. Not one, in all your years as a knight. Is that true?”

Startled, Erwin nods.

Slowly, the Prince draws his knees up and hugs them, a careful, controlled,  _ graceful _ move. “He told me he didn't want some dandy of a knight more interested in playing the fool than fighting to guard me. That it was obvious you took what you did seriously.”

There is a lot left unanswered in those words, but it is the first time the Prince has complimented him, albeit in a roundabout manner. Erwin manages to keep his face straight as he murmurs, “I am flattered, Your Grace.”

The Prince shrugs. “As you should be.”

“I will thank His Majesty at the very next opportunity.”

The Prince simply shrugs again.

Feeling rather bold, Erwin continues, “And thank  _ you _ , Your Grace.” At the Prince's startled glance, he explains, “For your trust in me as well.”

The Prince looks away, the silky fringes of his hair hiding his face. “As far as I'm concerned, you earned your position.”

“I will make sure I keep deserving it.”

“Tch.” The Prince still does not look at him. “Is it an Eldian thing? All the drama?”

Erwin feels another smile curving his lips. “It’s only the truth.” Only the slight downturn of the Prince's lips is visible to him, and it makes Erwin want to laugh out loud. “I suppose I could tone it down a little.”

“Good,” the Prince mutters and stands up abruptly. “I'm going for a stroll.”

When Erwin gets to his feet as well, the Prince forestalls him with a raised palm. “I can take care of myself. You go check on lookout.”

As soon as Erwin nods, he slinks away, disappearing into the shadows so quickly Erwin feels a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread. It is only when he reaches the top of the hill that he realises why: the Prince had seemed to melt into the darkness as easily as if he was  _ made _ of it. 

Just like the wolf in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: That Eruriness isn't so subtle now, is it? Is it??? Heh, well, we're done with the letters for now (I think lol) and back to my regular narrative style for the upcoming action.
> 
> Tourneys, or tournaments, btw, were medieval festival-type events that included jousting, mock battles and other entertainment for the audience. They were often displays of power and wealth, and a chance for knights to showcase their skills and garner some fame. 
> 
> As always, tell me what you think! Thanks for reading!


	20. Welcome to Trost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! So terribly sorry for the delay, I've hit a bit of a slump in my writing to be honest. I've managed to write up two small chapters, though, so they're coming right up!
> 
> Thank you very much for the appreciation so far, and happy reading!

The first rays of the sun over the eastern horizon find Erwin and the Prince's army riding hard toward the gates of Trost. The men are utterly silent, but the thrum of their galloping horses is nearly deafening in its intensity.

Erwin watches the sandstone walls of his birthplace loom closer and closer, the same walls he dreamt of leaving as a child, the very same walls that, as he left, he swore he would not look upon until he had made something of himself.

He glances at his liege through the narrow eyeslits of his helmet; the Prince's back is straight and proud, and he keeps his seat on the horse like he has done this all his life, which he probably has. Unexpectedly, Erwin feels a sudden stab of comfort, of assurance. His liege is the one of the most capable men he has met yet and he reminds himself that he is fortunate indeed to follow such a man.

He only needs to remind himself of this more often.

The gates of the city groan and shriek over the sounds of the hoofbeats, and, slowly begin to grind open. Erwin's grip tightens on his reins - this is it. Their moment of reckoning.

By the time they near the gates, an unusually bright sun is already gleaming at them from above the horizon to their left. It casts ample light onto the now open gateway to the city. Erwin focuses on these open gates and almost reins in his horse and can _feel_ the confusion amongst the men around him.

There are soldiers waiting at the gateway, neither too many nor too few, and leading them is one mounted knight who awaits them, helmet in his hand. They all wear the Ackerman colours.

The knight dismounts as they approach, and Erwin recognises him immediately. The Prince only stops his horse at the last moment, and the knight is forced to look up at him through a cloud of dust.

“Welcome, my Prince. Welcome to Trost City.”

Erwin dismounts, and on the Prince's other side, so does Hange. The knight glances at Erwin when he removes his helmet and says, “Nile.”

Nile only nods stiffly. “Sir Smith.”

Erwin has to hide his annoyed sigh. _So that's how it's going to be._ Instead, he turns to the Prince. “May I present to you Sir Nile Dok of Trost. He serves Lord Lobov.”

“I also lead your Southern Forces, Your Grace,” Nile adds, bowing pompously.

“I wasn't aware Eldia even had a 'Southern Force’,” Hange says curiously. “Doesn't Eldia have but one army?” Nile throws them an unimpressed glance, and Erwin intervenes before he can make a fool of himself.

“Also, Lady Hange Zoe, Commander of the King's Army.”

Nile’s eyes widen. Hange grins. “That’s right, you answer to _me_ , Sir Dok.”

“Of course, my lady,” Nile says immediately, bowing again, this time at Hange. Erwin risks a glance at the Prince, whose eyes and lips are both narrowed, as if he is disgusted by the scene.

“What is the meaning of this?” The Prince barks impatiently, gesturing at the assembled troops at the gate.

Nile glances back, and answers, “Your welcoming party, of course, Your Grace!” Erwin looks at him keenly, and detects no hidden meaning in his words nor his gaze. Nile, at any rate, seems to believe what he is saying.

“Of course,” the Prince echoes coldly.

There is a long moment of heavy silence, which Nile breaks tentatively, “If you will follow me-?”

The Prince nods once, curtly. “Lead on.” As Nile walks away to mount his steed, the Prince, to Erwin's surprise, glances at him. “Stay close.”

Erwin nods tersely. “Of course.”

Nile barks orders to the men, who quickly line themselves on either side of the wide street. And then they set off.

Erwin does not want to look at the streets, at the unchanged flagstones and storefronts. Instead, he steals a glance at the soldiers that have followed them all the way from Mitras. Each and every one of them looks as confused and uneasy as Erwin feels. A few of them, like Sir Sannes, look frustrated, the kind that can easily be goaded into blind fury. Erwin looks at Hange, who is already watching him and nods grimly.

People are starting to step outside their houses to start a new day, but each and every one of them is distracted by the procession that marches down the Grand Avenue. Curious whispers turn into outright gasps, and the closer they approach Trost Hall, the more people begin to bow -just as nervous and confused as the soldiers from Mitras.

Trost Hall itself has many concentric inner walls, each with its own gate. Their party only makes it inside the first one when they are forced to halt.

Nile looks at the Prince hesitantly. “Your Grace, I do not think the entire entourage will fit in-”

“Tch.” The Prince whirls around to address Hange. “Get them settled in the barracks and come find me.”

“Your Grace,” Hange bows their head, but Erwin sees their discreet nod. The Prince turns back to Nile and gestures ahead impatiently. Erwin understands that his own orders to stay close remain unchanged.

They trot through gate after gate, past tinkling brooks and carefully planned gardens, some of which remain green even at this time of the year. For the first time, Erwin feels a twinge of nostalgia. Trost Hall was never his home, but he always appreciated the beauty of it.

Finally, they approach the main Manor building, stolid and unassuming in its sandstone walls, but Erwin knows very well the finery that awaits them inside. He dismounts after the Prince and follows him and Nile inside before he can dwell on his memories.

The way to the Great Hall is painfully familiar. The floor is uncarpeted, but there are rich tapestries and intricate carvings on the corridor walls. The Prince barely glances at them and keeps his glare fixed on Nile's back. He looks as calm as ever, but Erwin can read his nervousness in the stiffness of his neck and the hand that lingers on his belt, near his sword.

The doors are already open, and before he knows it, Erwin is standing before the man who came closest to ruining his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so "Trost Hall" or "Trost Manor" is completely based on the beautiful Alhambra in Granada, Spain. It has been built upon by different rulers of different cultures over the centuries, and so is a beautiful mix of many architectural and artistic styles. Click below to see some images of the place, I would suggest exploring the website for more images:
> 
> [Official tourist website](https://www.alhambradegranada.org/en/info/galleryofphotographs/generalife.asp)  
> (If you're a Game of Thrones fan, you'll definitely recognise the place :) )
> 
> I suppose Trost itself can be considered to be a lot like Granada, as well. It is an absolutely beautiful city, with such a vibrant mix of cultures. Worth a visit in real life, and hopefully it lends enough colour to my imaginary city of Trost.
> 
> As for the story, more in the next chapter!


	21. Nicolas Lobov

Lord Lobov gets up from his seat -that looks disturbingly like a throne -and bows before the Prince. “Your Grace,” his deep voice rattles, bringing a chill to Erwin's spine, “what a pleasant surprise to have you here.”

The Prince looks around, at the hastily dressed courtiers and servants that crowd the hall, at the ostentatious display of Ackerman banners. “Don't seem very surprised,” he grunts. Lobov straightens up and smiles, his eyes still cold. “We try our best to please, Your Grace.” He gestures at the raised dias behind him. “Please, have a seat. We can get some early breakfast served for you, simple fare, given the short notice-”

The Prince strides up to the dias, ignores the ornate chair pointed out to him and plonks himself right onto the Lord's throne-seat. Erwin sees Lobov freeze for a tiny moment, before joining the Prince on the seat to the side, all smiles again. Erwin follows, and Lobov is forced to acknowledge him.

“Well, if it isn't Erwin Smith! You seem to have done well for yourself, boy.” Lobov smile filled with poison, and Erwin is sharply reminded of the last time he saw the man, when they had struck a deal…

“Thank you, my Lord.” Erwin says quietly and takes his place behind the Prince's chair.

Lobov proceeds to ignore him once more.

“Tell me, my Prince,” Lobov says genially, waving at some servants who begin to set the table, “what is the reason for the unexpected honour of your visit?”

“I'm touring my kingdom.” The Prince mutters shortly. 

“Of course, of course. And your uncle -er, some berry wine, Your Grace? Brewed from the finest harvest, right here in Trost.” The Prince accepts the glass but does not drink from it. Lobov gets his own glass and takes a hearty sip. “As I was saying, will we be graced by His Majesty's presence as well?”

“Probably not.” The Prince shrugs, and then seems compelled to add, “He's a busy man.”

Erwin lets his attention wander as the Prince and the Lord exchange more pleasantries. He scrutinises the hall before him instead, and takes note of everything he sees. There are far too many nobles than there should be at this hall in peaceful times. Groups of people whisper amongst themselves while others speak and laugh too loudly. Nile stands in a corner, studiously looking away from the dias. Every dark Ackerman banner is matched by a scarlet Lobov banner accompanying it. The knights are in full armour, the guards are wearing chain mail.

It looks like the eve of a battle, and Erwin's heart is thudding with anticipation.

“You have a full court here,” the Prince points out bluntly, bringing Erwin's concentration crashing back to his liege.

“What can I say, Your Grace?” Lobov says in a humble tone that fools no one. “My nobles are very loyal to me.”

“So it appears.” The Prince narrows his eyes at the knights milling about. “Heavily armed, too.”

Lobov laughs loudly, jowls a-quiver, making Erwin flinch. “You are a perceptive man, indeed! As a matter of fact, we have organised a small tourney to take place tomorrow, Your Grace. Your timing is fortunate, really.”

“A tourney in the middle of winter,” the Prince states.

Lobov shrugs, refilling his glass and the Prince's -which makes Erwin frown slightly.  _ Did he drink from it? _

“We are blessed that our winters are not too harsh on our grain and our bellies. In any case, the people would enjoy something to look forward to in these dreary months, would you not agree?”

The Prince grunts, and, to Erwin's surprise, turns to him. “You never told me about any winter tourneys, Smith.”

Erwin is quick to respond. “There weren't any when I lived here, Your Grace.”

“This is the first time we have planned one,” Lobov interjects smoothly. “We hope to make it a tradition.”

“An expensive tradition,” the Prince notes calmly.

Lobov's smile falters, his first sign of stress. “Ah, but I'm sure you'll agree it is good for the people, Your Grace. The money in our coffers serves the people, after all.”

“The money in your coffers belongs to the King first and foremost, Lord Lobov.” The Prince twirls a butter knife between his fingers in a casual manner. “I hope you do not need reminding of that fact.” 

There is a sudden silence where Lobov tries to keep his waning smile fixed on his face as he appears to look for a response. 

Then the Prince smirks. “Relax, old man. Sir Smith here will tell you I have a shitty sense of humour.”

Erwin has to hide a smirk of his own. “Your jests are always phenomenal, Your Grace.”

Lobov lets out an uncertain chuckle. “I - I must agree with Erwin, my Prince. You certainly are a  _ charming _ young man.” His eyes are cold dark points now, beyond all pretense. “I will have to keep my eye on you.”

“As I you,” the Prince says nonchalantly, and rises. The rest of the seated people also jump to their feet hastily. “Is there someplace I can freshen myself up?”

Lobov turns into a gracious host once more. “But of course!” He claps his hands twice and the answering servants confirm that the Prince's rooms are ready. “Please, allow me to show you to your quarters.” When Erwin starts to follow, Lobov adds, “I think you know the way to the barracks, Erwin?”

Before he can answer, the Prince says, in a bored voice, “But first get my bags to my rooms, will you, Smith.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Erwin manages to keep his composure at being treated like a common valet.

Lobov shoots him another venomous smile, and leads the Prince out of the hall. Erwin follows on their heels, trying not to think too much of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Whoopsie! They went all prepared for a battle but were welcomed with open arms?? What is happening???
> 
> Also, Levi being a smartass is my favourite thing ever!
> 
> I hope the plot seems to make sense so far. We'll really get into it in the upcoming chapters, but do let me know if it doesn't seem right in any way. Barring spoilers/plot twists, I will try and fix it if that's the case! :)
> 
> As always, let me know what you think! Thanks for being such amazingly patient readers! <3
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	22. Apprehension

The Prince's rooms are stunning. The colours are muted, there are comfortable couches everywhere, and the arched windows are large and open up into his own private walled garden with a small fountain, currently bone dry.

The Prince raises an eyebrow once they are alone. “Fancy,” he mutters.

“The Southern Provinces have always been Eldia’s richest,” Erwin agrees, looking out the windows. He thinks he can see the tips of spears jutting over the garden wall but he can't be certain.

“Solid security,” he says and the Prince understands, nodding darkly. A knock interrupts them, and Erwin stiffens.

The Prince nods again, slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword still strapped to his belt. Erwin strides to the doors and opens them in one swift move -and finds only Hange on the other side. They walk in and Erwin shuts the doors behind them immediately.

“Soldiers all settled?” The Prince asks them.

They seem uncharacteristically solemn. “Yes.”

“I have been invited to attend the tourney tomorrow,” the Prince says, turning away and yanking off his cloak. “Lord Lobov has given me the opportunity to choose a champion from my own soldiers.”

Hange opens their mouth and shuts it again. Erwin knows they have noticed what he already has: there are no flyers, no announcements, no decorations, nothing in the town they marched through that suggested festivities on the morrow.

“Well,” they say, face strained with worry but voice admirably calm, “Erwin is our best.”

Erwin starts, and mumbles, “I hardly think-”

“You will do.” The Prince nods, stripping off his jacket and unbuckling his belt. “Go with Hange and get your weaponry sorted.” His steel eyes are boring into Erwin's. “You need to be prepared.”

Erwin feels something his chest harden as he sees his anxiety mirrored in that gaze. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“Have an early night. I have a feast to attend tonight and you need to be in top form tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Then he hesitates. “If I may, there are certain places and people I'd like to visit. I have not stepped foot in Trost for more than eight years.”

The Prince is bent over his travelling bags and does not turn around. “As long as you don't get shitfaced drunk or something and embarrass me tomorrow, I don't care what you do with your time today, Smith.”

“Your Grace is too kind.”

The Prince grunts and turns around. His eyes are just as perturbed as before. “Wait for Hange outside.”

Erwin bows and leaves the room before his uneasiness can push him into making a mistake.

*

* * *

 

Hange exits the Prince's rooms a few minutes later, and together they make their way to the barracks.

“So this is where you lived, huh?” They ask him, their curious eyes running over the carved stone screens and the immaculate gardens.

“Only as a lowly squire,” Erwin answers.

“And before that?”

His answer comes without hesitation. “With my father. He was the court scribe.”

“Here in Trost?”

Erwin nods. “The King spent many months in Trost every year. The Princess preferred staying here and only visited Mitras for special occasions. Because of the near-constant royal presence here in Trost, there was a second royal household permanently established here as well.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” Hange stares at a tapestry in passing, a richly embroidered one rivalling the tapestries in the throne hall at Mitras.

Erwin looks at them curiously. “I thought you were aware that Trost is considered the Kingdom's Winter Capital.”

“Yes, yes,” Hange waves their hand impatiently. “I am only surprised the dichotomy of power is so pronounced. Isn't it a politically flawed and shortsighted decision, to have two seats of near-equal power in the Kingdom?”

Erwin glances reflexively at a soldier stationed outside a door they walk past. Hange grins and adds, “I'm only asking theoretically, of course.”

“Of course,” Erwin echoes faintly. He realises he has seriously underestimated Hange's daredevil instincts.

The rest of the way to the armoury is spent in silence. When they arrive there, however, they are met with more ominous news: the champions will be provided their arms on the morrow, the armoury is closed for the outside contenders today.

Erwin drags Hange away before they can make a scene.

“It doesn't matter,” Erwin hisses at them.

“Don't they realise how inane their excuses are-”

“Hange.” Erwin says sternly and they stop talking. He glances quickly around, sees no one in hearing range, yanks them forward and whispers in their ear, “Stop trying to antagonize them. We are on thin ice at the moment. Watch over the drunkard for now.”

Hange raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you _ordering_ me, Sir Smith?”

Erwin doesn't miss a beat. “Yes.”

“Oh?” Their face is blank and he can't tell if they're angry or amused. “On what authority?”

“I speak for the Prince,” Erwin tells them simply.

There is a long, quiet moment before their expression relaxes into a smirk. “So you do.” Then they suddenly grab his arm in turn, their sharp nails digging into his skin through his sleeves. “But don't let me catch you using that tone with me again. I still am your Commander.”

Erwin nods, well aware he has overstepped the line. “So you are, my Lady.”

Their grin widens and they push him away abruptly. “Watch your back, Smith.”

“And you, Lady Zoe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not a lot of plot development in this one, I know, but we're getting there.
> 
> Let me know what you think is gonna happen! Thanks for reading!


	23. The Doks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Okay, so I have been really excited to write and share this chapter and the next, so I'm uploading them both together! 
> 
> Happy reading!

Erwin finds Nile where he left him in the Great Hall, and is unsurprised when Nile invites him home for lunch. In fact, he was both hoping for and dreading the same thing, and he agrees readily.

The lane to Dok Manor is singularly unchanged, as quiet and green as it has always been. Erwin spent years traversing this path, along with Mike, when they were all squires at Trost Hall, knights-in-training together. Erwin vividly remembers multiple instances of him hurrying down the street to haul Nile out of bed for their day's duties, of dragging an inebriated Nile back home for the night, of helping young ladies slip out at dawn before Nile's stern father could find them under his roof…

Nile has dismounted and gone up the steps to his front door before Erwin even realises it. He barely has time to clamber off his own horse and hand the reins over to the stable hand, before the door slams open and a beautiful woman exclaims, “By Sina's petticoats, is that Erwin _goddamn_ Smith?”

Erwin’s nervousness fades away and a smile naturally grows on his face. “Marie. You look wonderful.”

“You look terrible,” she tsks, and sweeps him into a warm hug.

Marie's cheer has always been infectious, and Erwin is suddenly silenced by the joy rising in his chest, which nearly overflows as a choked sob that he manages to restrain. He can feel Nile's gaze on him, and he forces himself to behave. They walk inside, and the receiving room is also the same. Nothing has changed in Erwin's eyes, and yet everything has. The woman leading him to his seat is the only woman he ever loved, now the Lady of this house. The man silently following them in, is his former best friend and her husband, the Lord of the Manor.

He wonders if they are as concerned as he is at this turn of events. They certainly don't look it. Lunch passes in a blur of reminiscing and forced smiles and Erwin only vaguely registers the food he is consuming. It is delicious, to be sure- the Doks have not changed their cooks- but he chews and swallows apathetically, his mind otherwise occupied.

An unexpected distraction appears after lunch in the form of Nile's two daughters. The little ones barge into the hall, their faces bright with curiosity at meeting the guest. Erwin is internally stunned at how grown they are (eight years is indeed a long time), but manages to hide his emotions behind a smile. The girls are insistent with their questions, and Erwin hurries to try and satisfy them, ignoring their parents’ amused smirks.

“What is Mitras like?” Maria, the older one demands.

“Right now, very cold,” Erwin tells her.

“Is there snow there?” Nadia, the younger one asks critically.

“Oh, yes. Lots of it.”

A gasp. “It really is cold there!”

Erwin laughs. “Well, yes.”

“Are you a knight like Papa?”

“I am.”

“Do you serve another Lord Lobov in Mitras?” Nadia asks wonderingly. He senses Nile stiffen up next to him, and say sharply, “The King and the Prince are in Mitras, Nadia. You know this.”

Nadia bounces back admirably well. “So you serve the King, then?”

“I am the Prince's Royal Guard,” Erwin explains, gently.

Both the girls gasp and lean in closer. “You serve the _Prince_?”

“What is he like?”

“Does he fight good?”

“Is he rich?”

“Does he have a Princess?”

“Is he _handsome_?”

“Girls,” Marie chides them, clearly holding back a smile. “ _Breathe_.”

Erwin’s laugh is genuine. “Well, let's see,” he tells them, holding up his hand and counting down their questions. “I do serve the Prince, he is a good man, he _does_ fight extremely well, he's the Prince so he _is_ rich, he doesn't have a princess, and in his own way, yes, he is _quite_ handsome.” He grins at them. “Does that satisfy you?”

“Not in the slightest!” Maria declares impishly and her mother picks this moment to take over.

“Alright, girls, that's enough. Back to your rooms, now, chop-chop!”

The girls protest loudly, but Marie is practically a force of nature and so they give in, sulky and tearful. With reluctant curtseys, they follow their mother out of the hall and the two men are left in resounding silence.

“They're adorable,” Erwin tells Nile frankly, who barks out a laugh. “They're a handful most days, I'll admit.”

“Well, they do seem to take after their mother.”

“True,” Nile snorts.

“Are you two badmouthing me behind my back?” Marie demands, appearing suddenly at the door.

“Never,” Nile declares gallantly, reaching for her hand as she glides into the room once more. Marie gives him her hand almost thoughtlessly, and Erwin feels a pang in his chest when he sees how natural their affection is for each other.

He is perfectly aware he must not have these feelings; he is supposed to have moved past them. It's been eight years, and while he was in the other side of the Kingdom, he believed he _had_ moved on. Even now, Erwin understands his feelings are much more subdued than they used to be. Perhaps he is simply nostalgic, or perhaps he is mourning over what could have been. It could have been him holding Marie's hand with such casual warmth, it could have been his blue eyes shimmering in Nadia's curious face as she asked about the Prince.

Remembering the Prince brings him back to the sordid present with a crash. The Prince's baleful grey eyes from the last time Erwin saw him brings another wholly different sort of stabbing feeling in his chest, and his mood turns grim once more.

Nile, he realises, is watching him. “So, how are you, really, Erwin?”

Erwin smiles ruefully. “Stressed, if I'm being honest.”

Nile glances at Marie, who nods. Then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and mutters, “You can speak freely. No one will overhear.”

Erwin takes a deep breath. “Alright. Then I have one question for the two of you.” He leans forward, too. “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

The Doks frown at him, and Erwin hisses, “Why are the children here? What the hell were you thinking?”

Nile leans back and runs a hand through his hair, agitated. Marie answers for him. “They would not leave without me.”

“And why are you staying here, Marie?”

“Don't treat me like I'm some stupid, hopeless wallflower, Erwin.” She snaps. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

Erwin sighs. “It is dangerous for you here. You should not be here.”

“See?” Nile fumes, jumping to his feet. “That's what I've been trying to tell you.”

“And _I've_ been telling you that you men have always underestimated me-”

“Marie,” Erwin cuts in. “This is serious. This isn't some bar brawl that you can fight your way out of-”

“You think I don't know that? You think I'm taking this lightly? I lived through the war, too-”

“You don't know them,” Erwin cuts in again earnestly. “You don't know the Ackermans, you don't know their army, you don't know how _brutal_ they can be-”

They are suddenly interrupted by a small voice from the door, “Lord Dok?”

At some point, all three of them have risen to their feet, and they whip around. The Doks’ butler, Marlowe, stands at the door, and for the first time since Erwin met him many years ago, he looks nervous.

“Yes?” Nile prompts him quickly. “What is it?”

“A summons, sir. From the Hall.”

Nile glances at them. Erwin wonders if he looks as anxious as Nile does at that moment. He rather hopes he doesn't.

Nile pulls himself together with visible effort. “Stay, Erwin. You are our guest for as long as you like. I'll be back as soon as I am able.” He crushes Marie to his side and gives her a quick peck on her forehead, nods at Erwin, and follows Marlowe outside.

For a moment, both Marie and Erwin stare at each other, at a loss for words. Then Marie nods, “Follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Did I say Marie used to _fight_ her way out of brawls?
> 
> ...Yes. Yes, I did.
> 
> (More notes in the next chapter!)


	24. Marie Dok

The Doks have their own estate an hour's ride beyond the walls of Trost. Since the past three generations, they have also maintained quarters in the Town's rich residential area, a mere five minutes from the gates of Trost Hall. Like other townhouses of the rich and powerful, the Doks’ home boasts its own gardens and modest towers -modest in front of Trost Hall itself, but magnificent otherwise.

Marie leads Erwin to one of these towers, which is very different from the cramped, cold towers high up in the castle in Mitras. This tower is barely three stories high, with comfortable cushioned chairs and carved wooden screens to keep the glare of the sun out. A fine view of the whole city lies before them, and Marie has wine brought up to the tower to sip while they watch the crowds of people promenade in a public park right opposite them. One can hardly tell they are yet in winter's grasp.

Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, Erwin finds his melancholy thoughts are muted while they sit amidst these comforts. He could never have provided all of this to Marie. This is a life they could never have had together.

And to his relief, Erwin finds he has actually made his peace with this.

“What is he like?” Marie's words cut through his thoughts like a knife.

“Hmm?”

“The Prince. Prince… Levi, isn't it?”

“Yes. He's…” Erwin hesitates. “He's capable.”

To his surprise, Marie chuckles. “I do believe _you_ are incapable of giving someone a compliment, Erwin Smith.”

“That's not true,” Erwin protests, smiling.

“Then _elaborate_ , you oaf,” Marie scoffs. “Or is he that bad?”

“Not at all.” Erwin pauses, uncomfortable for some reason. “Actually, I don't think he's bad at all.”

Marie watches him carefully. “Then all the talk of the Ackermans being monsters…”

“Oh, I'm not denying that. His fighting skills are… formidable, to say the least.” Erwin sighs. “I have only known him a few weeks, and I believe he is a good man, for the most part.”

“But?”

Erwin remembers the King, the dead Minister at the Council Table. He remembers Ragako and its indifferent citizens. He remembers Ehrmich and its devastation. He remembers the battle, the dead King on the bloodied battlefield.

Mike.

“But he's an Ackerman. His army is just as ruthless as the rumours painted them, if not more. He is supposed to be the best of the best in that army. He led that army.”

Marie looks out at the city beyond him. There is silence for a moment.

“You told Nadia he is a good man.”

Erwin’s eyebrows crease in a small frown. “I did.”

“That is enough for me.” Marie looks at him again. “You would never lie to the children. You would find a way to sugarcoat things if they were bad, but you would not lie.” She breathes a small sigh. “You say the Prince is a good man. And I am fine with staying.”

Erwin puts down his glass. “Marie-”

“I have made up my mind, Erwin.”

Erwin stands up and leans his palms on the stone balustrade. Down below, he can see groups of soldiers in chain mail mingling amongst the throngs of people. His fingers tighten their grasp until his knuckles are white.

“Erwin?”

“Tell me, Marie,” Erwin's voice is deceptively quiet. “Is there a tourney tomorrow?”

“A tourney?” Marie's voice rises in astonishment. “In winter?”

“No,” Erwin smiles without humour. “It does sound ridiculous.” His mind is brimming over with thoughts and ideas, plans and contingencies.

He turns around. “Do you trust your butler?”

“Marlowe?” Marie looks surprised. “Yes, he's known Nile since he was a boy-”

“Yes. Good.” Erwin nods. “This is of paramount importance. If Nile is not home by suppertime, you must have Marlowe bring him back.”

The seriousness of his tone finally seems to affect Marie. “Why?”

Erwin steps forward, kneels before her and takes her hands in his. “Promise me, Marie. Get him to get Nile here, by hook or by crook. If he has to pretend he is dying, so be it. If he has to dress as a stable hand to escape the Hall, so be it.”

“ _Stable hand_ -”

“And then,” Erwin ploughs ahead. “And then the four of you -you, Nile, and the children -and any other people you deem trustworthy, like Marlowe and the other servants -all of you need to barricade yourselves in the cellar.”

“Erwin, you are scaring me,” Marie murmurs and for the first time her voice is trembling.

“Good,” Erwin says fervently. “Blood will be spilled tonight, and I do not want my friends’ mixed in with the rest.” He pauses and mutters, “I would never forgive myself.”

“Erwin-”

“Please, Marie. _Please_. Promise me.”

She stares at him mutely.

“Promise me, Marie.”

She sighs shakily. “I stayed because I wanted to help.”

His breath leaves him in a chuckle. “I _do_ need your help for tonight.”

Her face brightens. “You do?”

“Yes. And then you will barricade yourself and your family in the cellar. Agreed?”

Marie stares at him for a long moment. Then her look softens and she squeezes his hands. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Town houses and the name 'Nadia' makes me want to reiterate: THIS FIC IS NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE. Really.
> 
> I love the Doks. I love the idea of Marie, and wish we knew her in canon. I have often committed the lazy crime of portraying these two people in not-so flattering ways. I, however, am fascinated by them and the part they play in Erwin's complicated life. Especially Marie, who I am convinced would be a pretty extraordinary woman to catch Erwin's interest.
> 
> If I may get a bit personal, the main reason I have been struggling with this fic is honestly because of having to write in Erwin's POV. He is becoming more and more emotional with each chapter I write, and I am simultaneously relieved and worried. Relieved because, oh gosh, the chapters felt so stiff and choppy in the beginning (the letters were my way of trying to convey Erwin's feelings/thought processes). Worried because Erwin's thoughts are hard to describe when you want to keep the relationship in "slow build" mode and also to avoid potential spoilers for the plot. Erwin is a devious man, and I want to keep that mysterious aura of him alive, but of course, it isn't easy to do that at all when it's his POV I'm dealing with. I am considering doing a rewrite of the first few chapters eventually, but not anytime soon. Maybe after I finish this fic I'll revisit that idea, maybe. For now, you'll have to make do with the fact the Erwin considers Levi " _quite_ handsome, in his own way". ;)
> 
> Anyway, sorry for rambling! Please do let me know what you think of the chapters, so I'll have a better idea of what to write! :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	25. Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK!! Terribly sorry for the long break (six months??) Well, I hadn't gone anywhere, just got sidetracked by a lot of other fics, as you can probably tell from my Works page :)
> 
> I never stopped being involved in this AU, and have actually written a lot more in the chapters that are supposed to come much later. This part of the story is still a work-in-progress, so please bear with me and I will try to update as frequently as I can. :)
> 
> Happy reading!

Erwin leaves the Doks’ residence after another hour of brainstorming with Marie. He makes his way down to the Market district, strolling and glancing around calmly. It would not do to appear to be purposeful.

The streets in this district are tiny, restricted only to foot traffic. Erwin stops at some shops and chats with some shopkeepers to set his pace. Then, at the seventh shop he visits, he doesn't leave out of the front door.

Nodding genially at the merchant, he slips to the stairs he knows are at the back of the store. Erwin has spent his early childhood running wild down these streets and knows the layout perfectly. He only hopes his pursuers are not so knowledgeable.

He darts across several rooftops, zigzagging amongst them until he reaches a street he has already walked past. He descends into an old haunt of his: a tiny bookstore curated by a ratchety old man who stumbles off his chair when he hears Erwin's footsteps.

“Who the hell is there? Why won't you use the front entrance like a normal-” He stops abruptly, his faded eyes widening. “Why, bless my bones. Surely it is not- Erwin?”

Erwin smiles, though he is not certain the old man can see it. “Hello, Mr. Pavrell.”

The old man's grin is like a beacon in the dim light. “Good heavens, boy. How you've grown. You're the spitting image of your father.”

Erwin’s heart twinges; so few people have said that to him. He steps forward, and takes the old man's hands in his. “How are you, Mr. Pavrell?”

“As well as I could be, in times as troubling as these.” He gestures vaguely at a rickety old stool. “Come, come, sit down. You must tell me what you have been up to.” Erwin sits delicately on the old stool while the old man rambles on, “Last I heard, you were dubbed 'Sir Smith’. Felt glad to hear it.”

Erwin smiles sadly. “Thank you, Mr. Pavrell.”

“Still at it, then?”

“Yes, I serve the Prince, now.”

Even in this light, Erwin can see the old man's expression harden. “The Prince, eh. A bad time and place to announce that, boy.”

“I am aware,” Erwin says quickly, but the old man interrupts, “How can I help?”

Erwin smiles. “Still as sharp as ever, Mr. Pavrell.”

The old man laughs. “You don't get to live as long as I have with a dull mind, my boy. So. Tell me what you want.”

Erwin takes a deep breath. “A meeting.”

*

* * *

 

They go to the docks in the far end of the merchant district. In the past, when the dominion of Eldia stretched out to the sea, the docks of Trost were colourful, vibrant, important. Now they are a shadow of their former importance, with trade being cut off at the stolen lands to the south.

Mr. Pavrell insists on accompanying him, so Erwin reaches the appointed place last. In the distance, the sun is sinking towards the city walls, and Erwin is finding it harder and harder to quell his nervousness. Time is of the essence.

A shadow splits into two and slips between the crates to join Erwin and the old bookkeeper.

“Good, you found your way. Directions weren't too difficult?” Erwin asks the two people that come to stand next to him.

“I have a feeling we were shown a roundabout route,” Hange muses cheerfully. “But we managed.”

Erwin gestures at Mr. Pavrell. “This is an old friend of mine. Elias Pavrell, Commander Hange Zoë, and -”

“Elias Pavrell. A friend of the city, I believe,” the other old man interrupts and pushes his hood down as he shakes Mr. Pavrell's hand.

Mr. Pavrell looks shocked. “General Pixis!”

“No, no, my good man,” Pixis corrects him immediately. “This fine Lady here is the Commander now.” He gestures at Hange. “I am but a leashed servant.”

“But not defanged,” Hange cuts in, their eyeglasses gleaming. “And not sober either, though that can change.”

Pixis grins and bows his head. “A _content_ servant, I meant to say.”

Mr. Pavrell simply stares, and casts a quick glance at Erwin, who shrugs.

“Well, we're here now,” Hange says stepping up to stand next to Erwin. “Where's the fellow?”

“He'll be here,” Erwin says, with a confidence he does not feel.

Hange leans against the crate next to them. “You'd better be right, Erwin.” He has seldom heard them sound so solemn. “We don't have a lot of time to-”

They stop abruptly and Erwin stiffens up, too. It happens in seconds -not a soul apart from them was seen in the empty docks, and then, suddenly, they are surrounded. Erwin is aware of people behind crates, in the ramshackle boat houses, under the eaves of the houses in the distance. Hange begins to draw their sword out, but Erwin grabs their wrist tightly.

“Wait.”

A man comes ambling down the docks from the houses, a man dressed simply enough, but in clothes of obvious good quality, with the scarred hands of a fisherman but the generous paunch of a nobleman. Hange's hand twitches in Erwin's grasp.

“Sir Erwin Smith,” the man drawls out. His tone is mild but he stops several steps away from them. Erwin notices a few of the lurking men reposition themselves behind this man.

“Mr. Dimo Reeves, I presume?” Erwin is glad to note his voice doesn't tremble. “Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

Dimo Reeves stares at him impassively for a moment before replying. “I won't waste your time or mine with these pretenses, knight. What do you want?”

“Your help.” Erwin answers frankly. “For tonight.”

Dimo Reeves smirks -and it is not a very _nice_ smirk. “Oh? And why would I, a humble merchant, unconcerned with politics, help _you?_ ”

Erwin has expected this, but what he hasn't expected is Hange's reaction.

“Because you said it yourself,” they say before Erwin can utter a word. “Politics do not concern you. But you do care about this city, and its people. We are asking you because of them, because we mean to make this as bloodless as possible.”

Dimo Reeves turns the full force of his stare onto them, and to their credit, Hange stares right back.

“Can it be,” he says slowly, with a hint of disbelief, “that the brutal Ackermans want something to be _as bloodless as possible_?”

“We are brutal, but only in battle,” Hange quips back. “We are not people to raze, nor to salt our conquered lands.”

“How very noble of you,” Dimo Reeves says carefully, but Erwin can see in his eyes that he is not convinced.

“I am Eldian, and I am for this plan, Mr. Reeves,” Erwin takes charge of the conversation once more. “Surely you would trust my words?”

Dimo Reeves looks back at him. “I have heard enough of your deeds, Sir Smith, to disincline me from this _trust_ you speak of.”

Once again, Erwin is already expecting something of the sort, so he manages to keep his expressionless mask. “If it is your trust you are concerned about, perhaps you will find _him_ a better recipient for it?” Erwin gestures behind him, and on cue, Pixis steps forward. Dimo Reeves actually looks taken aback. “General Pixis!”

“As I mentioned to this gentleman before,”  Pixis says genially, “I am a General no longer.”

“You trust these people, then?” Reeves asks him point-blank.

“Well.” Pixis casts Erwin an amused glance before turning to the merchant again. “They have kept me alive until now, so that inclines me in their favour.”

It is hardly a display of faith, but Erwin keeps his mouth shut. He knows, after all, just how much diplomacy Pixis is capable of. If he chooses not to implement his tactics here, he must have a reason.

Sure enough, Dimo Reeves smirks. “Made yourself a deal, then?”

“Yes, they have been most accommodating.”

Hange twitches next to Erwin, and he almost grabs their wrist again. But they are _grinning_ , and they say, “If it is a deal you want, Mr. Reeves, surely we can come to an understanding.”

Dimo Reeves crosses his arms over his substantial midriff. “What are you offering?”

“We understand that your company was officially deemed the sole procurator for certain _supplies_ to the royal household before the change in governance. We would reinstate those offices to your company.”

“Lobov has already been giving me these privileges since before your little Prince was _born_ ,” Reeves counters.

“Ah, but Lobov is only a Southern Lord, and his reach does not extend beyond Trost.”

“My company has no presence in Mitras.”

“And wouldn’t you like to have one, after all these years of hard work?” Hange throws a discreet glance at Erwin, and he continues, “The Northern provinces were hardest hit by the war. They need labour, resources, and wealth. There is a lot of opportunity to be had in rebuilding these provinces.”

Reeves lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at him, and suddenly, Erwin realises that this man does _not_ like him. “Forgive me, _Sir_ Smith, but were you not just saying that you wanted to help the people of _Trost?_  Why should I care to throw my money into provinces that were impoverished by the man you serve, the man who searches to deal with me now?”

Erwin feels panic rise in him and quells it with difficulty. He had not counted on this man’s antagonism towards him. He cannot understand why -surely he has never met him, and he has never interfered with the dealings of his company, shady though they might have been…

“Mr. Reeves,” Erwin says, a sudden epiphany striking him. “May we please talk together?” Reeves’ eyebrow shoots up again, and Erwin clarifies, “Alone.”

Reeves scrutinises him for a moment, then nods, and gestures for one of his bodyguards. “Get the old man,” he says, and somehow, the guard understands that he means Pixis. Reeves walks ahead, leading them past a few more crates and rotting boat-frames, until they are standing on the edge of the dock.

“Speak, Sir Knight,” Reeves mutters. Erwin glances at Pixis, who looks distinctly unruffled at the blade pointed at his neck by the guard.

“Do you hate me, Mr. Reeves?” Erwin asks him, and Reeves sputters at his frankness. “W-What the hell sort of question is that?”

“You do not seem to approve of my presence here,” Erwin goes on. “I can only imagine it is because you have been listening to Lord Lobov’s many tall tales.”

“Tall tales, are they?” Reeves barks. “You’re saying they’re all lies?”

Erwin glances back at Hange and Mr. Pavrell, who stand staring at them a little anxiously. The sun has already set behind Trost’s walls, and they are running out of time.

He turns back to Reeves and Pixis. “Did you ever know my father, Mr. Reeves?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Market district" of Trost is loosely based on the Spice Market in, you guessed it, Granada. Again, I encourage you use google for some images of this amazing place. 
> 
> On to the next one!


	26. A Trost-Worthy Friend

The feast is in full swing. Erwin can hear the chatter of a hundred voices and the clatter of hundreds more pieces of cutlery. He tries, yet again, to distinguish the Prince's voice from the rest, but fails, yet again. The darkness and damp are getting on his nerves, but for the life of him he can't make a sound. So he doesn't.

Marie, by virtue of her former employment as lady's maid in the dead Princess’ retinue, knew the paths and corridors of Trost Hall like the back of her hand. She also had, by virtue of her adventurous nature, an extensive knowledge of the maze of catacombs underneath the city, radiating from the Manor itself.

So Erwin's request had been simple: an illicit entry into Trost Manor, as close as possible to the Great Hall. Marie had taken it a step further and led him to a secret entrance into the Great Hall itself. Then, going over her directions and instructions one last time for Erwin’s sake, she had hurried back to her own home where her husband was waiting for her so they could lock themselves in their cellar.

Erwin settled himself at the secret entrance as the sun was sinking past the walls of Trost. Since then, it has been a long, impatient wait for the feast to progress enough until the plan can be put into action.

He fingers the hilt of his sword restlessly, hearing some sort of loud, drunken cheer beyond the stone wall. Perhaps it his awareness of the farce of this feast, but Erwin can't help but think the shouts sound forced, fake. It is too soon for revelry of this sort to be underway. Something is going to happen, Erwin knows it in his very bones.

Then he hears it: strings tuning, the clatter of a tambourine in preparation. The music begins less than a minute later, complete with a full chorus of voices. It is a loud, rowdy jig; the noise from the feast intensifies until it becomes a solid block of sound that sets Erwin’s heart hammering in his chest.

It is time.

 _‘A Trost-worthy Friend’_ -Erwin knows of this staple of entertainment very well indeed, for almost every visitor of note to Trost has been treated with a performance of this song. Part ballad, part comic sketch, it never fails to delight the city’s myriad guests, and so, of course, is being performed tonight in the Prince’s honour. An errant thought appears in Erwin’s mind as he wonders what the Prince thinks of this tomfoolery, but that is unimportant at the moment. The noise and the spectacle is exactly the distraction that Erwin needs to slide the stone door open and slip into the Great Hall, right behind the dias.

He has timed it perfectly. This is right around the time the protagonist of the ballad falls into the Trost river in a drunken stupor. The hall is filled with uproarious laughter, including that of Lobov himself, who has to participate in the skit at this point: traditionally, the Lord of Trost has always done so. The Prince sits in his throne-seat with only the back of his head visible over the chair -blessedly alone at the head table. Erwin slinks forward, kneels right behind the chair, and whispers, “Your Grace.”

The Prince’s arm jerks to his waist where Erwin guesses a knife is strapped, before freezing still. He doesn’t turn around, merely mutters, “Smith.”

“Everyone should be in position,” Erwin informs him through the gaps of the chair's carved back.

The Prince lifts his goblet and pretends to take a long draught to hide his murmurs. “You get the doors.” His head moves in the smallest of nods towards the doors. “Limit passage. Stem the flow.”

“Understood.”

Erwin nearly moves away before the Prince hisses urgently, “Smith.”

“Your Grace,” he leans in.

“Don't go too far.” The Prince replaces his goblet on the table and assumes an expression of bored focus. Clearly, their discussion is over.

“Understood,” Erwin whispers again and slips away to the corner of the hall, where he easily mingles in the distracted crowd. He scrutinises the mass of people gathered in the hall and makes out several men in chainmail, swords belted at their waists. _Who comes armed to a feast?_

He finds their own soldiers in the crowd, too. One or two of them offer him a discreet nod, the others seem to be focused on the spectacle but are actually keeping an eye on the Prince. Now, it is only a question of waiting for their enemies to make a move…

The laughter and the jeering increases in volume and Erwin absently glances at the skit. The idiot protagonist, now drunk, is tottering about with a crossbow in his hand. Erwin knows what happens next: by some glorious wobbling and finagling, the drunk fool accidentally shoots a man in his rear. It's classic comedy. Erwin watches the actor stumble and reel across the floor, looking like he actually is drunk out of his mind. The man lifts his crossbow lazily and spins, yelling some perfectly-pitched slurs that set his audience roaring even louder than before.

Erwin watches the man twirl -and time seems to slow down. He watches, frozen stiff, as the crossbow arcs downwards. In every performance, the bow is always loaded with a dummy arrow. But in the bright torch and candle light of the feast, Erwin sees a glint on the tip of the arrow.

This arrow is not blunted. It is not a dummy.

Erwin’s voice hasn’t even left his throat when the crossbow points straight at the dias, where only one man is sitting at the head table -

-and The Trost-worthy Friend looses the arrow at the Prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some action scenes coming up! This is honestly what I've been struggling to write, unfortunately. I've got some written down, but it is not complete yet. Again, I ask you lovely readers to bear with me, because I have multiple WIPs in addition to this one that I'm working on! :) 
> 
> As always, what do you think of the story so far? What about the two latest chapters? Let me know what you think!
> 
> I just noticed that this is the first of my fics to cross a hundred kudos!! :O This is so amazing, thank you everyone for all your appreciation!! <3 You have no idea how much it means to me!
> 
> And as always, thanks for reading! <3


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